The Tales of Ered Luin
by Bazylia de Grean
Summary: "This will be no legend, and no tales of heroics. But there will be battles, though maybe not where you would expect them and not ones you would expect, and there will be an exiled prince and an exiled princess, and many other elements a proper tale should have." And then, reaching into her pocket and briefly touching her fingers to a mithril bead hidden there, she began her tale.
1. Chapter 1

_Special thanks go to the author of the wonderful site _The Dwarrow Scholar_, without which this fanfic would have never become what it is. That was some fine, well written research material, and an incredible fun to learn all those things. Plus, the dictionaries! To make a long story short: âkminrûk zu, thank you!_

_Just a few words about the fanfic itself: there will be no grand adventures, no retaking the Erebor with the company or whatnot. There will be tales, and tales within tales, and the majority of the story takes place in the Blue Mountains, so again, no adventures, but more like everyday life._

_Also, some basic _Silmarillion_ knowledge might come in handy, namely the Valaquenta._

_There will be some Khuzdul words used, but they're either explained outright or the phrase is somehow repeated in the neighbouring sentence. Some will not be explained outright, but please don't look them up anywhere as not to spoil yourselves the story._

_Will be updated weekly. After that prolonged introduction to the story... Enjoy the read!  
_

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**. . .**

**THE TALES OF ERED LUIN**

**. . .**

**- 1 -**

**T**he sun was setting behind the ragged peaks of Ered Luin, painting rocks and snow with gold and red, lighting the mountains up with fire. The little town was still buzzing quietly with life, traders and merchants slowly packing up their fares, chatting animatedly, exchanging jokes and laughs, and already planning the evening at the small nearby inn, the only one in the whole area. Years had not stood idle here, Acwyn thought, remembering when there had been no inn in the town, because the town had barely been a town at the time. Following the example of the other traders, she was slowly gathering her herbs back into various wrappings and glass jars.

"Do you know any tales?" A maybe thirteen-year-old girl was standing at the tiny stall, curiously looking over the collection of herbs, then glancing up at the elderly woman's attire, which was not quite covered by her woollen travelling cloak.

"Why would I?" Acwyn smiled, feeling a rush of affability towards the girl, so full of life and sparkling curiosity, reminding her so much of another girl, so far away and so many years ago. _Do you know which herbs bring calm sleep, Master Radagast? And which can help in cold? And which can cure the fever? And..._

"Your clothes show you're not from here," observed the girl thoughtfully, absently tugging at one of her fair braids. "But you plait you hair like women here do. So either you're a traveller, and should know some tales from other realms, or you hail from Ered Luin, and..."

"And?" Acwyn encouraged, putting the last of her herbs into a worn bag.

"Nothing. There are no tales here. There are rumours of old dwarven cities, but no tales. It's a boring place to live." The girl pursed her lips and huffed, apparently frustrated by the lack of adventures in her young life.

"There's a dwarven realm right in the neighbourhood." Acwyn laughed briefly. "I wouldn't call it boring."

"They just make weapons and armour, and bits of jewellery when then can put their hands on some silver. I doubt there's anything interesting at all in Thorin's Halls." The girl noticed a change in the elderly woman's face and mistook it for lack of understanding. "That's what they call their realm," she explained. "Thorin's Halls. Their king's name."

Acwyn nodded slowly, a soft smile passing her lips. "Yes, I know that." Thorin's Halls. Thorintûmhu. Ah, how they laughed at her countless attempts to get the name pronounced right.

"Oh. So you hail from here?"

She shook her head. "I've lived here for some time, long ago."

The girl's eyes gleamed with hope. "Do you know any tales? Any? Just one? Please?"

Acwyn laughed again, decided against ruffling the girl's hair, for surely she deemed herself a young lady, not a child, and would take offense. "I might've just remembered one. Tell you what: come see me in the evening, by the healer's house, and I'll give you one tale."

"Tilly!" shouted a woman's voice. "Tilly! Where's that girl gone... Ah, here you are." A slender woman, her hair fair with silver streaks, quickly strode over and grasped the girl's hand. Then she looked at Acwyn. "I'm sorry, ma'am, did she bother you? She just keeps pestering all the newcomers for tales of foreign lands, I keep telling her she shouldn't but still she does, and..."

Acwyn raised her hands, palms towards the woman. "It's all right. It's all right to be curious about the world." She gave the girl a stern look. "But not all right to go talk to every stranger, and I hope you'll try to remember that." She glanced back towards the mother, searching her memory. Ah, yes. Joy, daughter of Bell. She had been the one to welcome little Joy into the world, and now that tiny child was all grown up and a mother herself. "I promised her a tale, by the healer's fire, if that's all right with you," she said friendly.

"Oh." Joy seemed surprised. "Very well."

"So I'll see you both in the evening."

. . .

**T**he town had grown and changed, and so had the neighbouring dwarven realm by the looks of it, and yet the healer's fire remained as it had been. Not a place, not a time, more of a custom. Once, when there had been no inn here, she used to sometimes offer traveller's supper, bed and breakfast, for which they had often paid with tales and songs shared by a fire. And hence it had been born: the healer's fire. There was another healer in the town, and an inn had grown by the road, and yet people still gathered by the healer's little house, around a creaking fire, and there were merry shouts and excited whispers and much laughter.

The healer was expected to be assisting to a birth, so she left, leaving the house in the care of the townsfolk, and Acwyn, a sister by trade. Earlier, they have met and talked briefly, and the healer had introduced herself as Hazel, daughter of Holly – another of the children Acwyn had welcomed into the world. She had her mother's eyes and a heavy braid of dark hair, and an easy smile. She had also mentioned the previous healer, Sage, from whom she learned her trade, and Acwyn smiled at the memory. She remembered Sage as a girl, then a young woman, friendly, curious and compassionate, and it had been no wonder both the herb and healing lore had come naturally to her. She was saddened by the news of Sage's far too early passing, but laughed at hearing that when illness had finally gripped Sage, Sage had welcomed it like another curiosity of the world and had jested it had been just another adventure.

Now Acwyn was sitting beside the fire, beside what used to be her house, waiting for the few townsfolk and travellers, and surprisingly also one or two dwarves, to gather. The townsfolk were mostly children and mothers, as most of the fathers would choose the tavern for the evening, to listen to tales of the trading routes, to learn if there was unrest anywhere and if the roads were safe to travel.

Slowly, the talks around the fire quietened, and there was only the creaking of the wood, and, if one could listen carefully, it would probably be possible to hear the children around holding their breaths, though one would have to be at least as perceptive as Radagast to be able to achieve that feat. Even the peaks of Ered Luin seemed to be drawn by the silence of the tale to be told, looking to be closer to the little town now in the dark of night.

"Can you begin now?" asked Tilly, her eyes gleaming with excitement and the reflections of flames.

"Yes, dearie."

"You're that herbalist from Mirkwood, aren't you?" asked a moustached man, holding a little, maybe five-year-old girl in his arms.

"Just a humble trader," she answered, and it was not quite a lie, for right here and now a trader she was. "My name is Acwyn, and yes, I do hail from Mirkwood."

"Does the name mean something?" inquired Tilly, before her mother managed to shush her.

"Most of the names of the ladies of Mirkwood mean 'joy'," Acwyn explained.

"Seems the women are the joy of your folk," another man remarked, and everyone laughed.

"Not only their folk, but every folk," ventured a stout, round-faced young woman, and everyone laughed again, even louder.

"Peace, peace, let her speak," said the moustached man, settling his daughter on the ground so that she could come closer.

"Should I begin the tale now?" Acwyn asked.

"Name, name first!" shouted Tilly, and that was followed by a few merrily echoed 'Name! Name!' around the fire.

"Very well," acquiesced Acwyn. "In Mirkwood, I live in my father's house, and as it was built by a great ancient oak, I was named Acwyn, which in the Common Speech is 'Oak-joy'," she explained. And which had been a laughing matter for her ever since her once-kinsmen had called her that because of where her father's house stood, but she said none of this aloud. "Should I now begin the tale?" she asked again.

"Tale! Tale!" sounded around the fire.

"Then a tale I shall give." Acwyn paused, leaning towards the fire slowly, and heard some of the younger children draw excited breath, and saw the eyes around the fire gleaming in anticipation. "This will be no legend, and no tales of heroics. But there will be battles, though maybe not where you would expect them and not ones you would expect, and there will be an exiled prince and an exiled princess, and many other elements a proper tale should have. There will even be a dragon mentioned, however briefly." And then, reaching into her pocket and briefly touching her fingers to a mithril bead hidden there, she began her tale.


	2. Chapter 2

**- 2 -**

"**M**any, many years ago, a dragon by the name Smaug came from the north and sacked the dwarven kingdom Erebor, which some of you may now know as the Lonely Mountain. The human realm, Dale, was destroyed then also, and some of those who made it out alive tried to scrape a living at the far edges of the Long Lake, beyond, as they believed, the reach of the dragon, and those became fishermen and traders.

"Others sought refuge in Mirkwood. Thus craftsmen turned into woodsmen, but in their minds and hearts the memory of Dale was still fresh and very much alive, and so they passed the tales of its beauty and glory to their children, and they passed it to their children in turn, and though the memories faded in time, they were not lost completely.

"Now, our tale begins some sixty years after the sacking of Dale and Erebor. A man came to Mirkwood, from the West, some said, some said from the North, some even said he was one of the Dúnedain. That was what people guessed, for he never mentioned where he hailed from or what brought him there. But he proved kind and resourceful, and a skilled hunter, so the woodsmen welcomed him among them as one of their own.

"As tales have it, he met a woman, a daughter of the descendants of Dale, and they fell in love and married, and in due time a daughter came into the world. The woman named her Kelda, 'Fountain', remembering the tales of the glory of Dale her parents and grandparents had been telling her, and hoping the name would bring her daughter good luck and plenty. The girl grew, and it turned out fate turned her name and her mother's intentions into jest, for she was gifted neither with height, which she inherited from her mother, nor with beauty. Green were her eyes, shaded with brown like grass and leaves in autumn, and ashen brown were her curls, like the bark of hazel – a true child of the woods, her father called her, and her mother delighted in her laughter, for even though it was nowhere as charming as the laughter of a fountain or a stream, laughter was what the girl had in abundance. But not only that, for she was also gifted with curiosity of the world and all things living, and would always go around asking about herbs and trees, and animals, these folk of the wild.

"A renowned healer dwelled in Mirkwood by that time, and the girl's curiosity and willingness to learn won him over, and he agreed to teach her. Radagast was his name. And under the tutelage of Radagast she learned how to bring calm sleep, how to help in cold and how to fight off fever, and to clean and wrap up wounds, and even stitch them, and many other things a healer should know.

"Years passed, and Kelda learned all she was able to learn, and when Radagast ventured off on a journey, she became the healer, slowly gaining respect amongst the woodsmen, though nowhere nearly as great as that which they had bestowed upon her teacher. Those other descendants of Dale knew her also, as she often travelled to the lakeshores and healed the sick, and helped children come into the world. And those other folk of the old Dale called her Run, which means 'Secret Lore', for the lore of herbs, natural even if not that common to the woodsmen of Mirkwood, was unfamiliar to them and difficult to comprehend."

"Is she the princess?" asked Tilly, impatient, ignoring her mother's scolding look. "And where's the prince?"

"You've already had the dragon, silly!" said a tall boy beside her, probably her brother.

"Patience, patience," calmed Acwyn. "There will be a prince. There will even be a king. And a princess, as promised. But no, Kelda was no princess, just a healer.

"Eighteen years of Kelda's life passed in peace and joy, and joy she was to her parents, and to her the joy was in learning the secrets of herbs and brews. But in the eighteenth year of her life, a boar wounded her father, and he passed away, and her mother followed not long after, dying of a broken heart that no herbs her daughter commanded could mend.

"And so Kelda took her herbs and all of what little belongings she had, and left her home, and left Mirkwood, and even left the name given by her parents, and thus left all the memories behind her. She took the name Run as her own, and with a group of trades travelled across the land, and they crossed the Misty Mountains. Somewhere on the other side of the mountains she met Radagast, and he offered to take her to Imladris, Rivendell in our tongue, for the wonders of Lord Elrond's dwelling can heal hearts and souls. In time, Run's heart and soul healed, and youth and her passion for life won over, and she thanked Lord Elrond and the elves for their kindness, and ventured out again, though she did not return to Mirkwood.

"With another group of merchants, iron and weapon dealers from the far Iron Hills passing through Rivendell on the way west among them, she travelled as far as Bree, on the way learning of a battle that had been fought at the gates of an ancient dwarven realm now called Moria, long lost to the folk of Durin, and of new forges and mines being built in Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, and many other rumours and tales of the wider world.

"In Bree she found one of her father's old friends, a blacksmith by trade, and he welcomed her as he would a long unseen daughter, and as a daughter he accepted her into his life and home. And so in Bree she remained, healing those who needed healing, but as it was not often, as usually it were the travellers passing through the town that needed her aid, she learned how to brew ale, and, which comes as no surprise, she was far more renowned for that latter skill.

"Months passed, calm and merry, as calm and merry as all those who have ever come to the borders of the Shire know life can be there. Run made friends with both the men and the halflings, who call themselves hobbits, and so in our story we shall call them thus. The blacksmith sometimes also called her a hobbit in jest, and she would laugh at that, and agree, saying that even if in height she outgrew the hobbits, she certainly was one in appetite. Others called her by her name, or sometimes the Herb-Lady, and some also called her the Green-Lady, for her skills with herbs and for the kerchief she wore folded up in three and tied around her head as a band. And so by the end of the third year, which is when our story begins for good, she was known in Bree as the Green Kerchief, and accepted among both the Small and the Big Folk as one of their own."

"Is this where we meet the princess?" asked Tilly, anxious for the real tale.

"Patience, dear." Acwyn smiled. "Not yet. But now, we're soon going to meet the prince."


	3. Chapter 3

_Update's a little earlier this week. ____Thanks for favs and reviewing!_  


_And... Please don't imagine film Thorin while reading. Please, please don't. This fanfic is book based, and those of you who remember __the book will also remember Thorin very differently than his film version._

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**- 3 -**

**T**he day was golden and hazy, a late day of summer in Eriador, warm and smelling sweet, and full of songs of birds and all the folk. A group of merchants had arrived in the town in the morning, but that was not an unusual event, and so everyone were going around their everyday business.

Run left 'The Prancing Pony', which was unusually crowded at that time of day because of the newcomers and the news they brought of faraway lands and roads, thinking that perhaps she and the old smith, whom she had come to call uncle, could stop by in the evening to hear a tale or two. Having delivered the herbs to Barliman – at first, she had thought such task much below the dignity of a herbalist, but then discovered people around Bree did not need that much assistance, and she had to do something, and everyone knew she picked and grew the best herbs in the neighbourhood – she now had the rest of the day for herself. Well, so to speak, for there were many things to do, and her garden did need some tending...

"Pardon me, lass, but could you help?" asked a male voice, and she blinked and looked around for the voice's owner. He was a dwarf, and even in Bree it was not that common to meet a dwarf. There was a tattered red hood slung about his shoulders, and his clothes were dusty and torn here and there, as if after a long journey. He was almost a head smaller than her, with a long, if somehow unkempt ashen-brown beard.

"You need herbs? Healing?" she asked, certain someone from the town had told the stranger where to look for help.

"Nay," he said, then hesitated, as if he was about to say more, but then changed his mind. "Don't the townsfolk here need services of a blacksmith, by any chance?" he queried.

"There's a resident blacksmith in town," Run answered, somehow apologetic, because his face was kind and she did not wish to disappoint him, and it was a beautiful summer day and she would not want to spoil it to anyone.

The dwarf's eyes turned thoughtful. "Well, then, we'll have to seek elsewhere. Thank you, lassie," he said with a polite nod, then turned away. There was a slight limp to his step, maybe an old wound healed badly, or a fresh one not quite healed yet. Judging by the state of his clothes, it seemed to be the latter.

"Master Dwarf!" she called after him, deciding that regardless of what he had told, she would like to check on his leg and help, if possible. "I think the blacksmith will let you use his forge, should you need to mend your gear," she offered, knowing the aging smith would not protest.

"We might," spoke another voice, deeper and much less friendly. From the wide alley leading to the town's gate came another dwarf, higher than his companion, clothed in dark blue, dark-haired and dark-bearded. His bearing was haughty, his forehead clouded and his eyes fierce. "But who are you to trade in the blacksmith's place?"

"His niece." She paused. "And I don't think he'd mind. And using his forge might help you make some money to pay for your food," she added, knowing the people around did not need weapon, aside from an occasionally passing Ranger of the North, but a dwarven axe would stay sharp for much longer than one made by hands of men, and it could cut wood as well as foes. "The skills of dwarven blacksmiths are hailed in tales even here."

"We don't need you pity, lass," spoke the taller dwarf.

"But it seems to me you might use some kindness," she replied, which made the smaller dwarf snort.

The higher of the two dwarves took a breath, but before he said anything his comrade came forth.

"I'll deal with that, Thorin," he offered, and 'Thorin' grimaced, then shrugged.

"As you wish. We'll set camp beside the town's gate," he said, then turned and walked off.

"Don't mind him, lassie," the smaller dwarf said, smiling amiably. "Balin son of Fundin, at your service," he said, with a bow. "And we'd gladly accept your proposal, but we have nothing to pay with."

"Run, daughter of..." She fell silent momentarily, not wishing to mentions her mother's name, then thought of the far and fair lands from where she hailed. "Well, daughter of the Long Lake." She smiled. "I'm certain I'll find some work waiting to be done, unless bringing water or chopping wood is below you," Run said.

"There's no shame in honest work."

"I'd risk a guess your friend begs to differ."

"Thorin..." Balin began, but broke off, and waved his hand. "Long story, lassie, long story. But he's not afraid of work either. When can we start?"

"Tomorrow? I'll pass the word that there are dwarven smiths here." Run paused, then glanced down at Balin's leg. "What happened to your leg?"

"Just a minor wound, lassie. Not many healers among us, I'm afraid," explained Balin.

"Can I take a look? Maybe I'll be able to help with that, too."

Balin's face fell a little. "We can't pay you for that, lassie." He did not use her name, but the way he said 'lassie' held much kindness within, and overall he seemed decent and friendly.

" 'We'? There are more wounded?" she asked.

"We can't..." Balin tried to protest, but she interrupted him.

"I don't need payment, Master Balin." Run shook her head, then smiled. "I don't pay for the herbs I pick either."

"Thorin would not be happy about it." Balin's resolve was crumbling.

"I don't give a thought about his happiness in the matter," she said resolutely. "He's the leader of your company, isn't he?" she asked, and the dwarf nodded. "Well, then, time to learn that sometimes a leader has to swallow his pride and make sacrifices. I'll see you after noon, then," she said, nodded her goodbyes and left, barely noticing the strange look on Balin's face, and oblivious to the fact he was about to say something more. She wished to hear no more of that Thorin's protests right now, not when she knew she would have to deal with him later anyway.

. . .

**E**vening found her at the dwarven camp, by the fireside, a pot of water bubbling on the fire, and some cold water in a few bowls around her, her herbs set on a flat stone. She saw to Balin's wounded leg, and to others' injuries, and thought their journey had not been a safe one, although she did not wish to pry, and even Balin offered no explanation. So she focused on her work, and she washed wounds, soothed them with ointments and poultices, and wrapped them in clean linen.

Most of those she treated exchanged at least some pleasantries with her, and Balin sat nearby and kept chatting with her. He properly introduced their leader, and she learned Thorin was also called Oakenshield, and then Balin proceeded to introduce his friends, his brother Dwalin among them. Dwalin did not seem quite as amiable as his brother, and at first he did not talk much, but he did not seem bothered by pain in the least, and when she finished he thanked her and offered to help around the household should she need some wood chopped or anything other of the sort.

All the while Thorin was watching her, standing at the edge of the firelight and saying nothing, a gloomy figure in the shadows. Run glanced up at him from her work now and again, and, noticing a cloth tied around his arm, looked at him intently, but when he noticed her stare he just pointedly rolled his sleeve down to cover the cloth, and that was the end of it.

"Your leader is very..." she muttered to Balin, the broke off, looking for words, because 'stubborn' did not seem to cover it, and neither did 'wilful'.

"A tad too proud, perhaps?" hinted Balin. "Aye. But he's a good leader nonetheless," he said.

"Well, I guess there must be some reason why you follow him," Run remarked, not really caring if Thorin heard that. There was no reason why he should refuse her help, unless it truly hurt his pride that much to have anyone helping him. Which, in this case, was quite pointless, Run decided, and she was determined to at least try to offer her aid once again.

Having taken care of all the injured, she got up and approached Thorin. "Let me see," she said, reaching out for his hand.

Thorin stepped back, batting her palm away. "Leave me be, lass."

"She only wants to help, laddie," Balin said, trying to solve the matter peacefully.

Thorin scowled. "I'm older than you, Balin, so please be so kind as to not call me that." He looked at Run. "It's enough we'll be using your forge," he said harshly, and even though she could sense the harshness was not directed at her, it was not nice.

It took her a lot of effort to keep from shrugging. "As you wish, Master Oakenshield."


	4. Chapter 4

**- 4 -**

**I**t turned out Run's assessment was true, as the old blacksmith did not mind letting the dwarves use his forge, and for a few days the building became more lively. Thorin, who turned out to be the group's master smith as well as the leader, mostly kept to himself and did not talk much, but for every word he never uttered, Balin's younger brother, Dwalin, said two and bellowed one more, and a little loud as he was, he was also the merriest of the company, and the only one to jest, and he laughed much. Run came to like him quite quickly, and she talked quite a lot with Balin, and something of a friendship began kindling between the two of them.

The old smith let his own work wait a little, and allowed the dwarves to use his forge freely, and because of that one dwarf or another constantly kept asking if there was something that needed to be done around the house. And in the evenings they would all go to drink some ale at 'The Prancing Pony', and Dwalin, heedless of his brother's scowls, would wink at some halfling girls, and Balin would talk of the trade between the Blue Mountains and the Shire. But Thorin would say little, and sit in a corner with a pint of ale and a pipe, and the old blacksmith would sit with him with his pipe and an ale, and they would seldom talk, and instead just watch the others and rest. And Run would sit by the blacksmith with a small ale, and jest with Dwalin and talk to Balin, then go talk to one of the Rangers passing by the town, and with those of men and hobbits she knew. And when one evening Dwalin smiled at one of the bolder halfling girls, and the hobbit giggled and blew him a kiss, and Dwalin glanced at his plate, blushing furiously, Run laughed together with Balin and the other dwarves, and the old blacksmith, and even Thorin smiled fleetingly.

And so a week passed, altogether rather lively if not exactly merry, and talks of venturing out of Bree began amongst the dwarves. And one evening, when the old blacksmith was at the inn, and the dwarves had returned to their camp, and Run was in the kitchen, busy with her herbs and expecting no one at the moment, there was a knock at the door.

It was Balin, with a small sack at his belt, and Run guessed he wanted to talk payment with her, which she was going to refuse. But she let him in nonetheless, and invited him to the kitchen, and offered him a small ale, but the dwarf shook his head and reached for the sack.

"It's not much, lassie, but 'tis all we have," Balin said, opening the small sack, and silver coins tinkled as he emptied it onto the table.

Run shook her head. "I'll accept no payment, Master Balin. Not for help."

Balin's eyes bore into hers. "Why? What's wrong with us trying to repay you, actually wanting to repay you, lassie?"

"Nothing, Master Balin, and I accept the gratitude, but not the money. Help can be paid for with help, or work, or a bit of heart." She smiled slightly. "Never money."

The dwarf stared at her for a while, the nodded. "As is you wish, then, lass. I'm not about to argue with you after you helped me." He smiled. "Then thank you again. You're a kind soul, lassie, truly a kind soul."

"And you've got a heart of coal, Master Balin, burning bright and warm," she replied, and Balin laughed.

"A very dwarven thing to say. You're good at talking to people, lassie."

Run smiled again. "I had a great teacher." She put the coins back into the sack and handed it to Balin. "Thank you for the thought," she said. "Was this your idea, Master Balin?"

"Thorin's."

"Please tell something to him on my behalf, would you?" When Balin nodded, she continued. "Accept help when it is given freely, and use money to buy when it is not. Goodnight, Master Balin."

"Goodnight to you too, lassie."

. . .

**S**hortly after Balin left, there was a knock at the door, and before answering Run took a quick look around to check if maybe Balin had forgotten to take something, but no. Puzzled, she went to the door and opened it.

Thorin Oakenshield was standing outside, looking proud as ever, determined, and only slightly uncomfortable. "Balin told me you refused the money," he said without greeting.

"Did he also tell you the other thing?"

Thorin looked at her, his face unreadable. "That is why I am here."

Wordlessly, she stepped aside and invited him in, and after a moment of hesitation he followed her to the tiny kitchen, and sat down. Run remained standing, leaning against a cupboard and folding her hands across her chest, watching him with eyebrows raised in question. Thorin caught one of his braids and undid the clasp holding it, then put the clasp onto the table.

"This is mithril," he said, looking up at her. "Silver-steel, dwarven silver, it goes by many names. It'll bring you a good sum, should you sell it."

Run sighed. "You misunderstood me, Master Oakenshield. When I said no payment..."

"I know," he interrupted. "Help can be paid for with help, work or heart. You need no help from us, though this bead could be of help one day, should you need money. There's also no work I can do for you. But this is one of the few things left of my family heirloom, and it bears the markings of my clan, so, if anything, this would count as the heart you have spoken of. Make of it what you will."

Run looked at him, but was unable to read anything from that face of stone and those eyes like two dark tunnels in the evening gloom.

"Answer me one question, Master Oakenshield," she said finally. "Why?"

"They are my people. My responsibility." He looked straight into her eyes. "My debt of honour and my obligation to repay you."

Slowly, Run nodded. "Then I accept the payment in the spirit it was given."

"This is also a peace offering," he muttered reluctantly, and Run was certain Balin had told him to mention it.

"We've never been at war, Master Oakenshield."

"Thorin," he corrected, getting up. "At your service," he added, briefly bowing his head.

Run uncrossed her hands and bowed. "At yours and your family's," she replied. Her gaze flickered to his left arm. "I'd like to check on your arm, Master Oakenshield, if it's alright with you now that you've repaid me."

He sighed impatiently, but sat down again, rolled his sleeve up and allowed her to untie the cloth and check the wound. It was mostly closed, but it did not seem to be healing well, whether from strain of the forge work or some other reason, and as all she knew about the dwarves' journey was it had not been an easy one, she could only guess, for she did not have much experience in treating wounds.

"That's not looking very well." She got up and went over to the cupboard she stored her herbs in, and took out one of many various herbal ointments.

"We have no healer," Thorin said as she sat down again.

"A perfect reason to refuse the service of a healer when one's available," she remarked, ignoring Thorin's scowl, then opened the tiny glass jar and scooped some of the salve onto her fingers.

"I don't need to be listening to this, lass..." Thorin's last word ended in a hiss of pain as Run put the salve onto his wound, applying more pressure than necessary, and then he fell silent.

She felt a little ashamed for having hurt him intentionally, which she never did to anyone, but she was also tired of his hostility. Surely a little kindness was not too much to ask for, even from him.

"Here, done," she said, tying the cloth up. "Just put some more on it twice a day and it should soon get better."

"Thank you," he muttered.

"Well, you are welcome, Master Oakenshield." She tapped the lid of the jar lightly. "I'll make you some more of that, so you could take it when you leave."

"That won't be..."

"Not, that won't be necessary. But it'll help your arm heal faster." Run sighed quietly. "Truly, Master Oakenshield, what's... I can't understand. What am I doing wrong?"

"Nothing," he assured quickly, even if in a somehow gruff voice. For a long moment he remained silent, but finally spoke again. "It's been difficult few years for us; my patience is worn thin. And it's not an honourable thing to accept help without returning the favour somehow."

"And I believe you've just repaid me more than enough," she offered, thinking that maybe his honest answer was worth more than the mithril clasp.


	5. Chapter 5

**- 5 -**

**I**t was barely dawning, but Run was already up, having eaten a hasty breakfast with the old smith before he left, as it was a weekly market day in Bree, and he hoped to sell some of his wares, and he had been planning to take one or two of the dwarves with him. She was about to go herb-picking, but thought she might leave their guests something to eat, and was waiting for the bread to bake.

She left the fresh loaves on the table to cool, then took out some mugs from the cupboard and gathered them onto a tray. She walked out of the kitchen, carefully opened the door and ventured across the yard and into the smithy.

As it was still very early, and she expected no one around, not when the sky was just barely coloured with sunlight and the grass and roads were still wet from the morning dew. There was however, it seemed, one early bird among the strange guests, as there were muffled noises of metal ground against metal coming from the smithy. The door was ajar, so she used her foot to open it, briefly balancing her weight on one leg, then with her elbow pushed the door closed behind her.

"Good morning, Master Oakenshield," she offered cheerfully, recognising the washed out blue shirt and the dark mane of hair, now gathered into a braid so it would not get into the way.

The dwarf muttered something in response, not even glancing up from his work. Run did not bother, remembering Balin's suggestion not to mind Thorin's humours. She put the tray on a bench, next to the pitcher of water, then stopped for a moment to watch the dwarf's work. Thorin was working differently than the old smith, and where the latter always seemed to be pouring his love of the craft into his work, the former seemed to be venting off some deeply bottled anger. Run pondered this for a while, then shrugged and turned to leave, not going to risk another meeting with Thorin's foul temper, certainly not on a day which looked as if it was going to be one of those most lovely, golden days of summer.

She did not made it to the door when suddenly strong hands grasped her arms, none too gently, and turned her around.

"By Mahal, woman, are you out of your mind?!" the voice was nothing short of a growl.

She blinked, baffled. "Excuse me?"

Thorin's face was that peculiar shade of calm before a thunderstorm, but his eyes were furious, for whatever reason. Run was thinking, hard, but came to no sensible conclusion; whatever the culture differences between their races, surely a simple 'good morning' could be offence?

With a move of his head, the dwarf indicated the single glint of silver in her hair – the mithril bead he had given her the day before.

Run huffed quietly. "Well, you said yourself it's a hair clasp. I thought I might as well use it."

Some understanding was slowly dawning upon Thorin, as he seemed to begin realising she might not quite have an idea why a simple hair clasp would offend him so.

"Is it because it bears the markings of your clan?" she asked, trying to remain calm and not simply lash out at him for behaving that way while being a guest in her house, but she sensed it might not be the wisest of ideas. "I'm not supposed to wear it 'cause I'm not a dwarf?"

That finally seemed to make him gather his thoughts and calm down enough to speak. "No. That's because you're a woman."

"Oh." It was said in a tone normally reserved for phrases like 'yes, but of course' and 'oh, yes, how foolish of me', even though she did her best not to put mockery into her voice. "Now that we've established that, could you let go of me?" she added, evenly.

Thorin glanced down at his hands, holding her arms too tightly, then abruptly stepped back, letting go of her. But she heard no apology.

Run rubbed her arms briefly, then reached up into her hair to undo the clasp. "Could you at least explain?" she asked, slipping the mithril bead into the pocket of her apron.

The dwarven smith turned back to the anvil, giving no reply.

She suppressed a sigh of frustration. Thank Yavanna and all the good spirits of Arda, the dwarves would be gone on the morrow the next day, and even though she was becoming friends with Balin, and his brother Dwalin also seemed alright, the thought she would get rid of Thorin Oakenshield was a relief.

Run was already at the door when Thorin finally spoke, not very loud, but his words were well audible.

"The only circumstance when a woman wears markings of another clan is when she marries," he explained, somehow gruffly.

"Ah." She could now at least understand why he would not want his comrades to see her wearing the sign of his clan. And, to think of it, nor would she. "And how exactly was I supposed to know that?" she asked softly.

The dwarven smith's shoulder's moved when he heaved a breath. "You couldn't," he admitted before taking up work again, and that probably was the closest thing to an apology he was going to offer.

Tired of waiting and with her patience wearing thin, Run opened the door and stepped out, only to almost bump into Balin. He took a quick glance at the way Thorin was working the hammer, then at Run's face, then smiled and friendly patted her shoulder.

"Pay no heed to his foul temper, lassie," he said sympathetically.

"I was never going to."

. . .

**N**ext morning was like many other had been there in Bree, and as usual Run took breakfast to the smithy, both for the old smith and for her. They sat and ate, and chatted a little, and the smith praised dwarven skills a lot, and laughed at Run's scowl.

"Not pleasant companions to you, I see," he said.

"Some were quite alright, like Balin and his brother."

"His brother? Ah, the big one? Well, big for a dwarf." He nodded. "I see you didn't quite like their master smith, though."

"Thorin?" Run grimaced a little. "He's..." Her expression turned thoughtful. "He's a strange fellow."

"A tad difficult." The smith agreed. "But we've talked a little and he seemed decent enough."

"That's because you didn't have to convince him to let you heal him, and then deal with the payments issues... Speaking of which; should we sell the mithril bead?"

The smith shook his head. "No, child, unless you want to. Your skills earned it, so it's yours."

"But they used your anvil, not mine."

He smiled. "And I got my payment in knowledge. As I said, their smith's a decent fellow. Ah, right, almost forgotten... He left something for you."

"For me?" Run frowned, surprised. "If he left money I swear I'll borrow a horse and catch up with them, and..."

"Calm down, calm down, child, 'tis no money." The smith reached for something lying on the table, something small and wrapped in cloth, and handed it to Run.

Slowly, bewildered, she unwrapped the material. Inside, there was a simple knife, with no ornaments or anything alike, but it seemed sturdy.

"He said it's for your herbs."

Run stared at the knife. The dwarven smith had not met with her after the little incident in the forge, nor said any farewell, and truth to be told that even if he had wanted to, she would not have made it any easier for him. But he had made her a knife, a small and practical gift, and this knife was work and would be help in her work, and somehow she guessed that was his way of apologising without actually having to say he had made a mistake. Run shook her head, smiling, then finally laughed quietly.

"Did I miss something?" the smith asked, amused at seeing her reaction.

"Long story," Run said. "Let's leave it for the evening, shall we?"

* * *

_The romance will happen, eventually. Just not yet. I think it would take Thorin a lot of time to open up to someone from outside his folk. Just remember dwarves measure time a bit differently than the race of men._


	6. Chapter 6

_Bonus chapter this week :)_

* * *

**- 6 -**

**"A**fter the dwarves left, Bree became a quiet, uneventful place once again. Uneventful as Ered Luin, you might think, but then again, there are adventures lurking about in Bree if you know where to look, and so they were back then. Sometimes one of the Watchers, as folk call them in the Shire and about, or Rangers of the North, as they call themselves, or the Dúnedain, which is the name of those proud people, were to be spotted in Bree, and if one was brave enough to approach them, and would succeed in winning their trust, they would have tales of adventures to share. There were also talks of a wizard, Gandalf, known by his grey robes and famous for his fireworks. And there were traders and sometimes travellers, and they too brought news of foreign realms.

"Run was not the most courageous, but a curious soul she was, so she would often go and talk to those strangers, and offer herbs and healing, or sometimes bread and ale, in exchange for tales. For, as Radagast used to say and she firmly believed, tales were the herbs of mind and heart, as were songs.

"And so on went her life, quiet and peaceful. Until one day a Ranger came from as far as Ered Luin – whatever had been his errand there, Run never learned – and began asking around the town for the healer named Run, an, having found her, gave her a letter.

"A herbalist from a small human settlement in the Blue Mountains had heard of her from the dwarves passing through Bree some time before, and the herbalist recognised the lass from their tale as a daughter of her friend. The herbalist mentioned Run's father, and Run's true name, hence why Run believed her words. There was a brief mention of her father, and how he and the herbalist had been like a brother and sister to each other once, and at the end of the letter the herbalist was asking if Run would come over to visit her. How would a strange herbalist from a faraway land know her father was a mystery, but as Run glanced at the Ranger who had brought her the message, and noticed his gaze and how he was looking at her as if she seemed familiar, she recalled the old gossip that maybe her father had had some doings with the Rangers, or maybe had been of Dúnedain blood himself.

"That night, Run did not get much sleep, thinking instead whether or not to embark on the journey, not really wishing for adventures when she had settled down and rebuilt her life, and enjoyed how quiet and peaceful it was. But then she thought it would only be for a short time, and the folk in Bree would manage without her, having picked up some herb knowledge from all the travellers over the years. And so at dawn she packed her few belongings, tied the green kerchief around her head, said goodbye to the old blacksmith and, accompanied by the same Ranger that had brought her the letter, set out for a journey, thinking she would see a bit of the world and be back in no time at all.

"But of course you already know tales do not work that way, and you guess right, for Run never returned to Bree. For when she arrived to Ered Luin, the herbalist was alive no more, and her house empty, and the townsfolk left without a healer or skills or lore. So Run decided maybe it was meant to be that way, and moved into the herbalist's house, and in the Blue Mountains she remained. The townsfolk did not quite trust the Rangers, as so at the beginning some looked at her suspiciously, but they trusted their herbalist, and when it turned out Run was the girl the herbalist had been telling them about, people accepted her, and her easy laughter and patience quickly gained her the friendship of the townsfolk.

"She became friends with Oswin the hunter, whom she took care of after an unfortunate encounter with a wolf, and whether in summer or winter Oswin would sometimes invite her to accompany him on long walks in the woods. She also befriended Ivy, the town cheese-maker, with whom she shared the love of cheese, and when one spring Ivy married Oswin, she was glad for the both of them, though as you will guess it happened much later in the story.

"And the first winter it turned out the Ranger who had brought Run the news returned, as it was his custom to spend his winters about town if he could. Although rather grim in appearance, he proved a surprisingly good companion, and with Run they both shared many talks by fireside, of the wider world and of the wonders of Rivendell, and exchanged many a tale. Duilin was his name, which means 'River Song', and indeed when he was off his duty he liked to make merry, and drank ale and smoked pipe with the local men as if he was one of them, and snatched those pieces of normal and carefree life whenever he could. Amongst the townsfolk he was known not by his name, but simply as 'Dúnadan', and in time even Run learned to call him that rather than his name, as he did not mind and would only laugh at that.

"Now, it would only be proper to tell you something of Ered Luin as it was in the past. It is now no surprise to you that traders and travellers and strangers come here, and that sometimes even Círdan The Shipwright's elves from Grey Havens visit this place. Back then, it was a bit different.

"There was a dwarven realm nearby, quite young and new in the dwarven measure of years, founded less than forty years before. Thráin was their lord, and the King in Exile was his title, for he was the son of Thrór, who had been the King Under the Mountain and the lord of Erebor, heir of Durin the Deathless himself. Thorin called Oakenshield was Thráin's son and heir, and princess Dís was Thráin's daughter.

"The townsfolk had dealings with the dwarves, as under Thráin's rule they brought life back into the mountains, and dug deep, and coal mines were opened, and fires lit in the forges, and the trade was blooming slowly as the fugitives of Erebor were laboriously carving a new life for themselves in this realm foreign to them. Difficult had been their first years in this land, and it is said Thráin spent more time being a smith than being a king, and the same was told of his son.

"But slowly, they did prosper after a fashion, and life became bearable to them, and in the mountains they slowly carved themselves halls of stone, not nearly as magnificent as those of their fathers and grandfathers in Erebor or their ancestors in Moria, but comfortable enough. Thráin was the king in name, but he was withdrawn and not seen outside of their halls, and it was his son Thorin who dealt with everyday matters and signed trade agreements, and saw to the wellbeing of his people.

"With either of them, Run had no dealings. But she rekindled her acquaintance with Balin, and friendship grew between them, and she also met Dwalin again, and some other of Balin's companions. Sometimes, when an accident in the mine happened – which, however rarely, they did, for the dwarves had skills of their fathers, but not their tools, and had to do with little – so sometimes Run would come over and help with the wounded and in recognition of her aid, some dwarves would call her Furkhinh, Life-lady. But Run always said it was a name too grand for her, and so in time they began calling her Zâraminh instead, which means Lake-lady, for when asked from where she hailed she answered she came from the shores of the Long Lake.

"Life in Ered Luin proved peaceful, more so even than in Bree, and though Run loved the green fields and forests and streams of the Shire borders, it could not compare to the love she bestowed upon Ered Luin. As you well know, spaces are vast here, and forests as green as those of the Shire, and meadows rich with grass and flowers in spring and summer, and there are streams here also, as merry as those of the Shire, and there is the river Lhûn, and there are the mountains, among which there can be found peace deeper than elsewhere in the world. And when Run listened to Balin telling her of Mahal, the creator of dwarves, who more commonly goes by the name Aulë, she thought she could understand why it was in the mountains the dwarves felt closest to their creator. For she, too, found proof of the Valar's power more evident here, and marvelled at the beauty of the flowers and trees of Yavanna, and marvelled at the beauty of the mountains, which are called the trees of Mahal."

"All this talk of trees and mountains is nice," interrupted Tilly. "But I bet I know where this story is heading now. She's going to meet the prince again, isn't she? And then they fall in love and so on," she ventured, and everyone laughed.

"Shush, silly, 'tis no stupid romance," said her brother, and laughter boomed around the fire again.

"But she is going to meet the prince?" asked Tilly hopefully, and Acwyn smiled, for it warmed her heart to see a soul so young and carefree and curious for an adventure, even if the said adventure would be someone else's and only in a tale.

"You could say so, dear," Acwyn placated. "But during that time, she met the prince only once, and it was not a meeting she would ever recall fondly. You might guess why Thorin Oakenshield would not be an especially agreeable companion, and he was not an easy one to talk to, and not very friendly either, for he still remembered the fall of Erebor, and the fate of his people was a constant shadow on his mind and weight upon his shoulders. But Run, even though familiar with the tales, did not quite remember them right then, and a skilled healer she might have been, but empathy and understanding require much more patience and intuition, and she had yet to learn those."


	7. Chapter 7

**- 7 -**

**T**he day was only breaking, and the dawn was turning the grey sky into shades of gold. Run was already in the mountains, looking for her herbs, having learned from Balin a few days before that some of the herbs she needed grew in abundance near the dwarven halls, and she had thought she could go there and look, and Balin had assured her it would be no trespassing or offence if she went there.

It took her over an hour to get there from her house, which was at the borders of the town and closer to the mountains as it were, but she now found herself on a patch of grass like a narrow meadow. It winded up slightly, ending in a rocky ledge overlooking the forest, and the meadow itself was framed with pine trees on one side, the mountain slope and rocks on the other, a steeper stone wall on the third, and the fourth was the ledge, and that was framed by air and wind.

Run came closer to the edge of the rock, and when she looked down she forgot all about her herbs. Below, there was a forest, and further down the rooftops of the town were visible, smoke rising from the chimneys together with the mist rising from the grass. A little to the side, the river Lhûn was gleaming silver, proving true to its name, and on far left and right the horizon was framed with ragged peaks of the Blue Mountains, and above it all the sun was climbing up into the sky, which was turning from grey to gold, and in some places even slowly to a clear blue.

There was a sudden muffled noise, regular, like footsteps, growing louder, and she turned towards the sound. From between the rocks, where she guessed there had to be a passage or door of some kind, came prince Thorin, and as he took her in, his eyes at first flashed with surprise, but then quickly came alive with anger.

"Are you out of your mind, woman?" he asked in a harsh tone.

"Good morning to you too, Master Oakenshield," answered Run calmly, this time not bothered by his outburst. "What have I done this time to offend you, pray enlighten me?" she asked, mindful of his temper and still remembering all too well their last encounter in Bree.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "You didn't offend me. But you should not be here." He gestured for her to follow him, and when she did not move, he scowled. "By Mahal, woman, come."

She finally abided, not in a mood to start an argument she would not be able to win anyway, because offending the dwarven prince would do not good either to her, or to the townsfolk. "Could you at least explain?" she asked, the situation all too familiar already. "I know this land is practically over your halls, but no one ever mentioned it's forbidden to go there, quite the contrary, actually..."

"It's about your safety," he said gruffly.

"But Master Balin assured me it's safe here..."

"For a dwarf with an axe, not for a defenceless human healer!" He whirled on her, fuming, but it took him one deep breath to calm down a little. "Very well, I shall enlighten you. Think of the consequences if anything happened to you so close to our dwelling."

"Ah."

"'Ah' indeed!" '

"And you couldn't simply tell it to me, or ask if I knew that, because... Why, exactly?" She met his stare, unflinching, but not defiant either. She did her best to remain calm, but keeping calm had been much easier in Mirkwood with Master Radagast than here with the hot-tempered dwarven prince.

In truth, she expected Thorin's temper to flare to life again, or at least some stinging remark, but there was none.

"I will try to mind that in the future," he said eventually, and it was clear this was all the apology she was going to get. "Unless I find you here again."

. . .

**T**hey found Balin among some others working at the main gate, carving the relief that was to decorate the grand door. Run saw the first outlines emerging from the smooth stone, something that looked like mountain peaks overlooking a lake. There was also a faint shape of a star, but surprisingly not in the sky over the mountains, but in the water.

"Good morning, Master Balin," she greeted, somehow feeling the morning was about to stop being that good.

"And good morning to you too, lass." Balin smiled at her, then noticed Thorin and his smile faded.

"You told her the mountains are safe?" the prince demanded.

"But they are..."

"For a dwarf with an axe, not a defenceless woman! But very well. Since you were the one to tell her it's safe, you'll be the one to see to her safety whenever she'll need her herbs." Thorin nodded to them aloofly. "Good day to both of you."

Run glanced after him. "Such a ray of sunshine he is..." she muttered under her breath.

Usually, Balin would have probably laughed at her comment, but not this time.

"Don't be too harsh on him, lass," he said, to her surprise. "He can be difficult, yes, but life hasn't been kind to him."

"He's not the only one life did not treat kindly," she observed.

"Aye, lass, peace, peace. I'm not telling you to go all soft on him either, because that would not do him any good, and certainly would not do you any good." Balin smiled briefly. "Your kin, lass, lost their home in Dale, and mine – and Thorin's – in Erebor."

"Yes," agreed Run, not certain what Balin was trying to say.

"But you see, lassie, to you it's history, a tale." There was some sadness in Balin's features as he continued softly: "We remember." He paused. "I don't recall much, I was just a child. But there are those who remember more clearly, Thorin among them."

"I understand. But it doesn't give him an excuse."

"To treat you the way he does? No, it doesn't." Balin frowned. "You're tricky to talk to, lass."

"I'm sorry, Master Balin."

"Nay, it's a good thing. It might do Thorin some good, to talk to you more often."

"I have no desire to speak to him unless I'll absolutely have to."

"Easy to understand... Listen, lass, you look reasonable. Please be so while he is not, that's all I ask." Balin paused again. "Erebor isn't the only thing that plagues his dreams and thoughts, and that can't be put right, so just allow him his bitterness, at least."

Run pondered the words carefully, trying to do so not as the annoyed young woman she felt right now, but as a healer Radagast had taught her to be. To step aside and to look from another angle, to see the wider perspective, to offer patience if understanding was not enough. Alas, she was not gifted with either Radagast's wisdom or infinite patience, not his talent of seeing hearts for what they were. But still, she had learned some things from him, and where he would have seen, she could guess, thought not without effort.

"Bitterness won't help him, Master Balin," she finally said quietly. She then smiled friendly at the dwarf; of all their folk, he seemed the most agreeable. "You're his friend, are you not?"

"Aye, that I am."

"This is, I think, what might help him. If he ever lets you."

* * *

_You liked something? Let me know! You didn't like something? Let me know, too! Feedback is very much appreciated!_


	8. Chapter 8

_I'm in that horrible point of the writing process when most of the work is done, except for some holes in the text that don't want to fill themselves, no matter what. And I can't start writing anything else while this is not finished. Playing LOTRO isn't helping, either._

_There's only one thing that can help. Deadlines. They do wonders for creativity, I tell you. So updates will probably be irregular, but more often._

_Thank you for the favs, follows, and most of all for the reviews. And remember, feedback is very welcome!_

* * *

**- 8 -**

**"R**un might have been a good healer by then, but she had yet a lot to learn about judging characters. So even though Thorin Oakenshield had not been exactly kind to her so far, she would have been more forgiving, and maybe more understanding. But all that she had learned much later, step by step and little by little, and yet maybe it turned out for the best.

"But now it would only be fair to tell you what Balin knew then, and what he meant when he defended Thorin that day and claimed that the prince was entitled to his bitterness. For Balin had been Thorin's faithful companion ever since Erebor, and had shared his hardships, and knew first-hand what the prince had been through.

"For life had not been very kind to Thorin even since he had lost his home in Erebor. He had to strive since his early years – early for a dwarf, that is, for they measure time differently – to strive to scrape a living in strange lands, to fight in a long war, to take care of his people, to be the inspiring leader his father had taught him to be.

"His sister Dís, on the other hand, had spent years waiting: for a home, for her father and brother and grandfather to come back to her safe and sound. And while they had fought and worked, she had learned how to do with little wealth or even none, and how to sew clothes and shred linen for bandages, and how to tend to wounds. But most important of all, she had learned patience, and had found her inner source of strength to smile when no one else could, and she had learned how to keep on believing, and how to ensure others did not lose faith. And it is true that Thorin was a mighty warrior, but Dís was the life he had been fighting for during all those years.

"And that life she had brought with her to Ered Luin. And while her brother did his father's work and took the burden of kingship onto his shoulders, Dís walked quietly among their subjects, and talked amiably with everyone, and asked who needed food or money or help, and became the good spirit of her people, and became a mother to them even before she reached adulthood.

"Thorin was the king they would follow into flames, battle and death, a king of stone and fire, and should he wish to reclaim the lost homeland of Erebor, they would follow him even there. Dís was stone and fire as well, but her fire was different, less fierce and more consistent. And while Thorin was a leader shaped for times of unrest, Dís, though only a princess in title, was the queen to be loved and cherished in times of peace, because while Thorin's fire was one of a forge, Dís' was one of a hearth.

"So now, I would think, it is a proper story at last, for it has a prince and a princess, and soon it will even have a king in it. For Thráin was the king by the time Run arrived settled down in Ered Luin, but he is not the king I promised to tell you about.

"For some time king Thráin had been withdrawing from his duties, handing some over to his son, and other duties Thorin took upon himself on his own, but it was happening so slowly that no one truly took notice until it was too late. And it was that one day the prince and the princess found their father gone, and along him Balin and Dwalin, and a few others most faithful and loyal friends were gone with him. For king Thráin had been brooding much on his father's lost kingdom, and on all its lost treasures, and thought to try to reclaim it. It is said he had one of the dwarven rings of old in his keeping, one of those so called Rings of Power, and maybe that is why he decided to embark on that journey.

"His children were worried, at first, but as the messages came regularly, gradually their fear subsided. Thorin's duties did not change all that much, as he had been doing the king's duties for some time now, and Dís was used to waiting. Only sometimes nightmares would disturb her sleep, and in the end she sought the help of the town healer, and Run gave her herbs and sometimes mild sleeping draughts, and brought them to the dwarven halls herself. And over time friendship was weaved between the princess and the healer, for Dís had to remain the pillar of strength and hope for her people, and had no one besides her brother to share her fears with, but seeing he had enough burdens of his own, she would talk to Run instead. And Run, already used to people sharing their fears and dreams with her, listened to the princess, and offered her sympathy and understanding. And after some time Dís would ask Run for her presence and not her herbs, and they would sit by the fire and talk or go out and stroll a little in the mountains, which had become quite safe after Oswin and the dwarves had declared war on the local wolves, and no wolf or bear dared approach the town or the dwarven halls any longer.

"And so life went on calmly for four years. And in the fourth year, the messages stopped coming, and then Balin and Dwalin and the others returned to Ered Luin, battered and bruised and scarred. But Thráin was not with them.

"They told the prince and the princess that king Thráin had disappeared from the camp one night, and though they had looked for him for many a long day, they had found nothing, and eventually had to decide to come back. And they told where king Thráin had been seen last, and that after they rest awhile they would go seeking again, and that maybe others could march off at once, and that maybe there was still hope. And princess Dís tried to keep a brave face, but at the mention of hope she turned away and cried quietly, for if the bravest warriors of their folk could not find and save the king, who could?

"But her brother Thorin kept his face cold and seemed immovable like stone, and he thanked his friends for their efforts, and did not even mention they had said nothing to him of the venture before they had left four years earlier. And he told them to rest and called for the healer, and when they left his face still remained impassive, but his gaze darkened and his brow clouded. And from that day he could not sleep at night for thinking of the fate that had befallen his father, and he wondered whether Thráin was still alive, and early in the morning he would wake and go up the secret passage and into the mountains, and would sit and watch the horizon, and think. But he showed nothing, and one thing only gave him away: he would not allow anyone call him king, nor did he announce the time of mourning for Thráin.

"The princess took the loss of her father equally hard, but she let herself cry, though it did not bring relief. And her nightmares, sparse before, began plaguing her sleep constantly, and she asked Run for help, and the healer promised her herbs and stronger draughts, if need be.

"Dís was the only one not fooled by her brother's composed demeanour, but when she tried to talk to him, about his sleeplessness and about the arrangements that should be made regarding the king's disappearance, Thorin would not talk to her. Yet when she could not sleep at night and wandered the underground passages in their halls, she would hear her brother's restless pacing from his rooms, and she knew he was troubled. And she asked her friend the healer for a sleeping draught for Thorin, but Run refused, yet still she promised she would try to help him."


	9. Chapter 9

_Thank you for reviewing!  
_

_Last chapter before the weekend. Next one on Monday._

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**- 9 -**

**N**o matter how much Dís might have wished it, or whatever Run promised herself for the sake of her friend, no one could help Thorin if he would not allow it. So one day at dawn Run put a shawl around her shoulders against the autumn cold, and went up into the mountains, in hope of meeting the dwarven king. And she wanted to try to talk some sense into him, and to make him let her help, for his sister's sake even if not for his own.

She knew of the secret passage, which when closed looked exactly like the stone wall of the mountain, but Balin had told her vaguely about its whereabouts, and Dís had told her in detail, and had mentioned her brother's quiet refuge on a few occasions.

So she climbed the barely visible path among the pine trees, and breathed deeply, as if she could breathe in the peace of the place and store it for later. And when she came to the small meadow and the rocky ledge, there was a lone familiar figure standing there.

Thorin saw her approach, but barely noticed her at all, and by that she knew that whatever was plaguing him did touch him deeply. She had heard some rumours that King Thráin was probably dead, had quietly asked Balin, but even he had nothing but rumours to share, and she had not dared ask Dís. Then it dawned on her that maybe that was why, that maybe rumours were all Thorin had. She looked closer, more carefully. He appeared calm, if slightly unfocused, and yet somehow he seemed lost.

"Why are you here?" His quiet voice was hoarse.

"I was hoping to find you," she answered.

"Well, you found me."

She said nothing to that, her instincts telling her words were not something he needed or would appreciate in that moment. Five years in Ered Luin had not been all that long, but it had been enough for her to grow a little, both in confidence and in understanding.

There still was some hope that Thráin was alive, but it was faint and dwindling with each passing day, and while she might not have harboured any especially friendly feelings towards Thorin, the healer in her took pity on his pain, and wanted to find some way to ease it. She had no words to offer to him, none that would not taste bitter, and neither had she appropriate gestures, so she gave the only thing she could, that being her silent presence.

She watched his straight shoulders, and how he held his head high, and thought how much effort it had to take him to look so unmoved. A few years ago, right after her coming to Ered Luin, she would have fallen for this, or would have taken offence at being ignored, and either way she would have left. But now, though he seemed oblivious to her presence, Run kept in mind that he had spoken to her a while ago, and also noted that he had not told her to leave, something he had always expressed outright.

"You're still here?" Thorin asked, after some time.

"I am," she confirmed quietly, hesitating, not certain what to do and whether to do anything at all.

"You should leave," he said, but it was merely a suggestion, not an order.

"I shall if you tell me to," said Run softly. She waited for his reply, but none came.

"What use are your herbs, healer?" he asked all of a sudden, bitterly.

His question made her realise that she felt more than pity, than there was sympathy also, not the sympathy of a healer that came as part of the trade, but simply her own.

"There are some wounds herbs cannot heal, and some pains they cannot soothe," she answered quietly. And then, though she knew it would hurt him, she added: "Your Majesty."

Thorin did not flinch, but she caught the slight move of his head as he turned away even more, as if she had slapped him.

"I am sorry," she said softly. "For all it's worth, I am sorry."

"Go," he said, his voice hollow, but there was no enmity in it, only exhaustion.

That one word gave him away, and Run could see how lost he was, and could measure the depth of his pain. And as she was walking away quietly, she promised herself she would at least try to talk to him once more, not only because of Dís' worrying, but because she took pity on him.

. . .

**R**un did not return to the town immediately, but delayed to visit Dís, and to bring her the herbs the princess had asked for. It was not the first time she had been admitted to the princess' rooms, and Dís had assured her the Ered Luin halls were crude and simple compared to Erebor, and yet Run could not quite shake off her admiration for dwarven skills in carving stone. The halls were high enough so that even a tallest man could walk them without as much as bending his head, and there were a few glowing crystals on the wall, ones Run found very pretty, which had quite amused Dís, as those were used by the dwarves as lighting, and not considered jewels at all. There were also carvings on the walls, intricate geometrical designs and sometimes runes, and the latter were blessings and protections and well-wishes.

The princess' rooms were similar, brightly lit by great fireplaces, and there was a bear pelt on the floor, and the carvings on the walls were even more impressive than elsewhere. And beside the fireplace there were two stone figures half-emerging from the wall, and Run glanced at them, intrigued, for they were not finished last time she had been there.

"My mother," princess Dís explained. "And grandmother. Our men get the grand statues. Our women get this. In the end, they are the ones that look after us," she added quietly, watching as Run was unpacking the herbs. "What herbs are these?"

"Camomile and balm," Run named the herbs, noticing the princess' questioning gaze.

Dís offered a tired smile. "Thank you. For the herbs." Her clothes were finer than most, embroidered at the hem and sleeves, and her hair was exquisitely braided and held by silver clasps and pins, but right that moment she looked not a princess but just a woman, exhausted by worry and grief.

"At your service."

"About the sleeping draught..." Dís began.

But Run shook her head, not letting her finish. "No, Dís. I know you want to do this because you worry for your brother, but if he doesn't agree, I cannot let you do this. I can make some for you, but not for him."

Dís closed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead. "He can't sleep. Mahal, he can't sleep, when nightmares wake me and I wander the halls I can hear him pacing in his room. He won't be able to get on like that for much longer. But he won't let anyone help him."

"Dís..." Run began, her heart overflowing with sympathy for her friend. But she could not break the rules of her trade even for friendship, Master Radagast had been very clear about that. And though he had always answered her questions, that one time he had given no explanation, and that more than anything had convinced her to heed his advice. "I am sorry. He has to give his consent."

"I know what is plaguing him," the princess said quietly. "Mahal have mercy, I know." She took a shuddering breath. "It is his duty as a son to go and search for his father, if not to help him, then at least to learn of his fate," she explained, her voice even and too calm, and her face immobile like stone. "And it is his duty as a king to stay with his people." She paused, and took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her quiet voice did not hitch, but desperation resounded within it, like a distant echo in a mine. "It's his duty as a brother not to leave into danger or maybe death, not to disappear, it's his duty as the last of our family not to leave me alone." Dís shook her head, her palms curling into fists. "I won't let him go. I can't. I won't let him go."

"It's not your decision, sister," spoke Thorin, having overheard the last words, and they both almost jumped at hearing his voice so suddenly, for neither had noticed him come. "I must find father," he said, quietly, but with force.

"You can't leave," Dís protested fiercely. "No. I forbid it."

"Sister..." Thorin began, his voice having an edge of warning to it, but Dís sprang out of the chair and in a few quick strides she was beside him.

"No." Dís' hands clutched tightly at the lapels of his coat, and even though her face was still calm like stone, her voice quivered slightly, and Run was suddenly reminded that by the dwarven measure of time, Dís was a young woman, and afraid of losing her brother, the only one of her family that remained.

"Dís..."

"No!" the princess cried out, and had her brother not been stronger than her, she would have shaken him. "Father is gone, Mahal only knows where, and I'm not letting you go! You can't leave your people, you can't leave me, you can't..." And then her stone mask crumbled and Dís burst into tears, clutching at her brother's coat even tighter, and in the end she leaned her head against his shoulder and hid her face in the fur. "I lost father, I'm not losing you, too, I'm not..."

Thorin opened his mouth to say something, to protest, but then Dís sobbed quietly, the sound heart-wrenching, and he closed his mouth and put his arms around his sister, and held her tightly, and stroked her hair.

"Hush," he whispered, trying to soothe with a voice that had been rarely used for that purpose. "I won't go," he said finally, and it came out as a heavy sigh, and Thorin's brow was clouded, as if the words pained him, but it seemed that in the end the sight of his sister's fear pained him more. "I won't go. I swear by Mahal, I won't leave you."

Run, her presence long forgotten, quietly made her way to the door and slipped outside. There was nothing more she could do here, for she knew first-hand that both the princess' and the prince's pain was of the kind that could not be cured by any herbs.


	10. Chapter 10

**- 10 -**

**R**un was walking the underground halls alone, now and then nodding to some dwarf met on the way, but she did not stop to talk. It seemed the herbs had not quite done the trick, and she had had to make a sleeping draught for Dís, and she had promised to deliver it that morning. Usually Balin or Dwalin walked her to the princess' rooms, but she was known by the dwarves by the time, and acquainted with their healer, Vidar, and continuing the teaching of their new midwife, as the previous one had passed away last winter, and overall she had gained their trust, and was allowed to walk their halls unattended.

She was approaching the princess' rooms when a voice stopped her.

"Healer," someone called, but she did not recognise it was Thorin until she turned and saw him, so different his voice sounded when it came out this quiet and tired, polite even.

"Yes?" she asked, studying him carefully. When she last had seen the princess, Dís had been exhausted; but her brother the prince was a shadow of his former self.

"The sleeping draught my sister asked you for..." His eyes were deep empty wells in a pale, ashen face.

"I have it with me, Master Oakenshield." She refused to call him 'Your Majesty', for he was not her king, but the respect was not in the title, and she could just use his name, and spoken the right way it would be all the title he would need. And seeing him like that she certainly had no inclination to argue with him over anything.

"I reconsidered," he said, and coming from his lips this was an equivalent of admitting he had been wrong. "I will need your herbs."

Run nodded, reaching into a leather sash at her belt and biting back a remark that he could at least say 'please' once in his life. But then she looked into his face again and knew she did not have the heart to tell him such a thing now, not when he could not sleep for worry and grief over his father.

"Please."

She blinked, for the word was spoken so softly she was not certain if she really heard it. But there he was, standing beside her, looking at her without enmity and even with a shade of respect in his tired face, and she could not refuse him when he finally found it in himself to ask, she could not refuse him when he was looking at her with those eyes, calm with that numb shade of calm only too much anguish can bring.

"Of course." Carefully, she handed him a small bottle. "One spoonful on half a mug of warm water, right before sleep." She tried to keep her tone as matter-of-factly and decisive as possible, not wishing him to know she felt compassion, and trying to remind herself she did not want to feel compassion for this proud prince. "It won't work immediately, but it's quick, so it's better to drink it while already abed. I'll make more, if need be."

Thorin nodded. "Thank you, healer," he said, and there was relief in his voice, and also a faint echo of gratitude, and for the first time his word of thanks sounded genuine and not in the least forced.

And Run found she no longer felt uncomfortable about feeling sorry for him, and thought that maybe he was not the only one whose fault was pride. "Your are welcome, Master Oakenshield."

His eyebrows raised, and a tiniest flicker of life came back to his eyes. "Am I, now?" He watched her face, but by now Run could keep her features neutrally polite, so he found nothing could be read from it. "I haven't exactly been kind to you."

"Forgiven," she offered, wishing to make peace once and for all.

"Forgiven? I did not ask forgiveness."

"I'm generous and grant it nonetheless," said Run quietly, knowing she was treading thin ice and almost hearing it creaking under her feet.

Thorin's eyes were focused on her face. "Then I accept it in the spirit it was given," he said, repeating the words she had used with him once. "Forgiven but not forgotten, no?"

"No, Master Oakenshield. I remember things, and learn from them."

"You are difficult to talk to."

"So are you, Master Oakenshield."

"Give it a rest, lass." From him, it did not sound like when Balin called her that, rather as if he was not treating her quite seriously, but she knew better than to argue. "Name's Thorin."

"And what have I done to earn this privilege?"

His features softened. "You helped my sister and eased her pain. For that, I'm grateful." With those words he turned and walked away, into his rooms.

Run stared after him, thoughtful. It seemed that with Thorin it was surprisingly easy to forget he was not only a prince, but also a person, and a brother to Dís not only in name. And she recalled how not long ago she had seen him listen to his sister's plea, and she wondered over those glimpses into his heart.

. . .

**D**ís' room was a mess; there was an open chest in the centre of the floor, and various things were laid out on the table and two low benches. But when the princess noticed her, she managed a small smile and invited her in.

"I don't want to interrupt," Run said, hesitant, but Dís ushered her inside.

"I'd welcome an interruption," she said, and the smile faded from her face, and she sighed quietly. "My family's old things. Grandmother's, grandfather's... I've never had time put them all in some order." Dís led Run to the table, and gestured for her to sit on the bench. "Here, sit. Thank you for the herbs."

"No need to thank me." Run offered a comforting smile, but it was forced, and the princess looked away from it, and Run guessed it probably mirrored Dís' own sadness too much.

"There was time," Dís said, so quietly it was barely audible over the rustle of material and the gentle clinking of glass phials being put onto the table. "But I was afraid of the memories." She turned to Run, and the smile on her lips was bitter. "They don't seem so frightening now, not compared to reality." Dís shook her head, took a breath and in a moment she was back to the kind, composed princess Run knew, and only her eyes remained sorrowful. "I'm sorry. It's not your burden."

"I'm a healer. I'm used to hearing of burdens I cannot lift." Run felt her lips curl into a smile, but it was odd, unfamiliar, wise with the wisdom that was still foreign and distant to her, as she was only beginning to grasp it. "And I'm your friend. So if telling of it makes it easier for you, even a tiniest bit, I'm here to listen."

But Dís only shook her head. "Not today," she said. "Today, you can help me with tidying it all up a bit."

Run nodded, and for some time they worked, mostly in silence, and only sometimes Dís would give a quiet explanation that this was grandmother's dress, and this was grandfather's favourite pipe, and this was her brother's toy horse. Then the princess took up a piece of white material, square, finely and richly embroidered, and raised it to her face and smelled it.

"My mother's handkerchief," Dís explained, and there was a tiniest, tender smile on her face. "I borrowed it, that day. The kerchief, and her earrings, and her necklace." Dís glanced at one of the figures at the fireplace, then got up and walked over there and briefly touched a stone-carved hand, which Run knew was warm from the fire. "I had to sell the jewellery. Thorin pretends he doesn't know that. I pretend I never did that. But I kept the handkerchief. Mother did all the embroidery. And it smelled like her." She sniffed at the material again. "It doesn't, now. Doesn't matter. I remember."

Dís put the handkerchief aside, and for a moment they worked in silence. And then there were more quiet comments that this were grandmother hair clasps, and this was Thorin's first real sword, and this was Dís' bracelet, and Run marvelled at how the deep blue stone caught the firelight.

"Grandmother made it for me when we settled down here. She always said it looks like Mirrormere, deep and dark and with stars inside." Dís put the bracelet back into the chest, and then something caught her attention, and she leaned over and pushed something aside, and suddenly laughed. "Durin's beard," she muttered, taking out a small wooden figurine of a dwarven warrior with an axe. It was not very pretty or astoundingly well done, but it was evident that for Dís it held some special meaning. "Thorin made this for me," Dís explained softly, her eyes briefly gleaming with tears of emotion. "After we fled Erebor, I couldn't sleep," she said softly. "I would curl up and cry, or whine quietly, which was not a very royal thing to do, but I was ten, and frightened out of my wits. And then one evening Thorin sat by my bedroll and put this wooden warrior into my hands and said I didn't have to be afraid any longer, for this warrior would protect me, and if not, I should remember that _he_ would." Dís smiled fondly at the memory. "I slept soundly and calmly that night, and for every following night." Suddenly, she giggled. "I guess Thorin was relieved I stopped waking him up, wailing I was afraid."

Run laughed along with the princess, but was thinking of what Balin had vaguely said to her about Thorin's past. And that day she made herself a promise that in future she would try to find some more patience for the king, because of that wooden toy he had given to his frightened little sister.


	11. Chapter 11

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**- 11 -**

**A**s soon as the mourning period after Thráin's death was over, Dís sent Balin, and Run immediately answered the call and hurried up into the mountains to keep the princess company. As strange as it might have been, Dís seemed better. To some extent it was thanks to the herbs that helped her sleep at night, but mostly it was because the uncertainty was over. The princess' father had been declared dead, and though she grieved for him, she could at least mourn him now, and even that was better than not knowing and only guessing his fate.

Dís herself said as much, as then she said she would like to try and get back to life. So for some time Run talked with her of inconsequential things and trifle everyday matters: of the steady progress the young dwarven midwife was making, of the coming of winter, and of the quality of the dwarven skates that all the children in the town had been talking ever since the first snow.

But there was one question Run could not leave unasked. "How is Thorin?" she enquired tentatively.

"Strange that you'd ask," Dís observed with a brief smile, knowing very well Run did not like her brother very much, and knowing how resentful was Thorin's respect for the healer. But her smile faded quickly, and the princess sighed. "He still can't sleep, not without your draught."

"Dís," Run said quietly. "He must stop taking it. It can't be used for that long."

"But he must sleep." Dís shook her head sadly, helpless, closing her eyes. "I can't help him. I want to, but he won't let me. Please, there must be something you can do," Dís pleaded.

Run gritted her teeth. She hated being that helpless, hated the awareness that maybe Master Radagast would be able to do something, but she was not that good, hated the fact she was not able to help her friend. Then, suddenly, she recalled one of Radagast's teachings. '_The mind is a wonderful device... It never ceases to amaze me how much faith can do, and faith alone, when nothing else can, and how it is possible to achieve the impossible if you only believe it.' 'But how, Master Radagast? How to do that in healing?' 'Sometimes, it is enough that you will say a word less, or a word more, or say nothing at all, and then watch the mind do its wonderful workings.'_

"I think..." Run began hesitantly. "I think there's one thing left yet that I can try."

And that very same evening, back in her house, she took the dried athelas and carefully crushed its leaves, and then threw them onto boiling water, and later, when the contents of the cauldron cooled off, she poured some into a bottle of green glass one of Balin's friends, an excellent dwarven glass maker, had made for her at Balin's request. This could not be stored as long as the sleeping draught, but should it work, she would teach Dís how to properly make it. Athelas on water could bring no harm to Thorin, and Run hoped the smell would do the trick. The sleeping draught also contained some athelas, for its said soothing qualities, and for the smell, which was pleasant to anyone and muffled the not so pleasant smell of other herbs. And Thorin, who knew little to nothing of herb lore, should recognise the scent and think it was another sleeping draught.

. . .

"**I** thought you said you can't keep on feeding him the sleeping draught," Dís said instead of a greeting, when a few days later day Run had come into the dwarven halls to visit her friend the princess. "But Thorin tells me you gave him another, more potent."

Run smiled apologetically. "I didn't."

"You... what?"

"I didn't. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I needed you to play along. It's no draught, just athelas and water."

"Kingsfoil? But it doesn't... Ah, right. You've just said that."

"I put some into the sleeping draught for the smell. And now the smell is the same, so there's no reason Thorin should think it's not a sleeping draught."

"Clever." Dís actually smiled a little. Then her smile turned into a look of disbelief. "But he tells me it works just fine, I mean, that he's able to sleep..."

Run smiled. "The mind is a wonderful device," she said. "It never ceases to amaze me how it is possible to achieve the impossible if you only believe it."

Dís blinked at her, then suddenly put her arms around her and hugged her briefly. "Thank you," she sighed in relief, then pulled back. "I was so worried about him..."

"But how are you, Dís?"

"Coping. Getting through, somehow. By worrying about my brother, I guess."

"Could I see him?"

"Thorin?" Dís sounded a little surprised.

"Yes. I'd like to see how he's doing and whether my draught is working."

"Of course." Dís laughed. "I'm sorry, I just didn't expect you would ever be asking to see my brother, of all folk... But yes, yes, of course you can. Come."

. . .

**T**horin was in the king's office, now his. It had no door, so that no one could approach unseen, and there were guards, but further down the hall, so that they would not disturb the king at his work. There were some papers on the great oaken table, all but forgotten as Thorin was standing near the fireplace and watching the flames.

"Master Oakenshield," she greeted.

Thorin turned slowly, apparently having recognised her voice, then regarded her quietly for a while. "You lied to me," he said evenly, his tone and face so completely unreadable she did not know what to make of it.

"How so?" she asked carefully, not wishing to bait his temper.

"About the sleeping draught." The king turned from her and towards the fireplace. "Vidar told me. He was curious, and being used to tending to wounds, he would recognise athelas on water." He was still looking away, but Run caught a glimpse of his face and noticed a change there, but said nothing yet, waiting for him to continue. "I don't like being lied to," Thorin said, then turned back towards her, and his face looked more friendly than she had even seen it looking. "But I appreciate what you were trying to achieve."

"It's good," said Run, and offered a somehow feeble smile as relief washed over her. "Because I'm not sorry."

It was brief, barely there at all, but for a fleeting moment the corners of the king's lips quirked up a little.

"But give me one answer, healer." Thorin was watching her face. "Why?"

"Because your sister considers me a friend, as I do her," Run answered. It was truth, but not quite the whole truth. "She worries for you," she added quietly. "She might not say it, but she does."

"I've been trying to convince her my sleeping troubles are gone, but maybe she would listen to a healer's opinion," Thorin said.

"And are they gone?"

"Do I look like they aren't?" asked the king in reply, somehow crisply.

Run had to give him he was telling the truth; he did look better, the shadows under his eyes were almost invisible, and he seemed less gloomy, if still troubled by his father's fate. But as with Dís, it seemed even bitter knowledge was better that endless uncertainty.

"Well, yes. But do give me one answer, Master Oakenshield. How?"

"Once I learned that what I had been drinking was no sleeping draught, it seemed an obvious conclusion that maybe it meant I needed no draught at all." He looked at her face thoughtfully. "Unless, of course, that was your plan all along. I wouldn't know." He paused. "Either way, I am grateful for your help, Zâraminh." It was the first time he called her by that name, given to her by his kin, and by that Run knew something between them had shifted, and amazed she realised that after all the king had come to respecting her.

"You are welcome, Master Oakenshield." As she, in turn, had come to respecting him. And after that story she heard from Dís, and after seeing him so anguished and yet complying to his sister's desperate wish that he would stay, Run discovered she could find some kindness for this strange king, and that it came without effort.

He seemed to be pondering something, then spoke again. "Come dine with us. Dís will be glad to have company."

"Thank you, Majesty, but I must decline," she said politely, and briefly he frowned at how she called him, but then left the subject untouched, as if it did not matter to him all that much when neither her voice nor words were devoid of respect. "Besides, won't you keep her company?"

"Aye, I will. But I am not exactly a merry companion," he observed dryly.

"Maybe," Run agreed cautiously, but saw he took no offence. "But certainly an honest one."

Thorin nodded to her, whether or agreement or thanks, or both, she did not know.

"You did not answer me," he said. Then he noticed her puzzled look. "I asked you why you helped me. And yes, I believe you worry for my sister worrying for me, and I think hearing the word 'please' from my lips might have had something to do with that..." A corner of his lips twitched, but it was so brief it was impossible to determine whether it was the beginning of a smile or a scowl. "But I remember the girl from Bree, and I think somehow it would not be quite enough for her." The king looked at her expectantly. "Why, then?"

She meet his gaze, and for a moment they looked into each other's eyes warily. But he did not order her to explain, but simply asked, and because of that in the end she answered.

"It was because of a wooden toy a young warrior had made for his sister," she said quietly.

Thorin watched her, baffled. Clearly it surprised him that she knew, but there was more to it, as if perhaps for the first time he was truly looking at her. To think of it, maybe he was.

"Come," he said again, repeating his invitation, though this time it sounded different, as if he too found some kindness for her.

And to her own amazement, this time Run found herself nodding and accepting his request.


	12. Chapter 12

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**- 12 -**

"**T**ime went on, and slowly the little town began growing a bit, and the dwarven halls reached deeper, and though they were far from the splendid Khazad dwellings of old, they were still presentable, and impressive enough. And Run, who was a frequent visitor to the stone halls, often thought there was magnificence in their simplicity, and marvelled at the skills of dwarven craftsmen. Trade routes were established between Ered Luin and the Shire, from Michel Delving to as far as Bree, and even with Grey Havens. There were coals mines and forges, and in the town there were workshops, and the realm prospered in its own modest way.

"Many years have passed since the Khazad had come to the Blue Mountains; but they measure time differently than men or hobbits, and though their years are shorter than those of the elves, they are still longer than ours. In their first years, they had strived. During those next, they had worked hard. And then came the first time they could rest, if only a little, and they started to prosper, however slowly. Dwarven swords were prized by those few that could truly appreciate them, and were shipped as far as to Gondor, thanks to a trade agreement with Círdan the Shipwright's folk.

"But the Shirefolk cared more for axes for chopping wood, except for one of the Tooks, who commissioned a dwarven battleaxe. That, of course, would have not ended well, for a grave insult it was, but after a suitable amount of apologising on the Took's part, and a handsome amount of money, the dwarves made him a sword, adorned with those famous patterns of theirs, and it was said they even agreed to put the Took's name on the hilt, in dwarven runes.

"Aside from metalwork, they also made some jewellery, and lots of toys, though nowhere nearly as splendid as those made in Erebor, according to what Dís and Balin said. And of course wherever there were smithies, all folk, from men and hobbits in Bree to the elves in Grey Havens, made some use of Ered Luin coal. All in all, it might not have yet been time of plenty, but certainly it was a time of peace.

"And as tales and life have it, there came a time for princess Dís to marry; but that requires some explanation first. For dwarven women often remained unmarried, alike their men, and they too excel at various crafts, and many of them make exceptional jewellery and filigrees which can surpass even the work of elven artisans, and no folk can make embroidery so intricate as dwarven ladies do. But among those inclined towards married life, it is the woman that chooses her spouse, and he might either agree or refuse.

"Dís had not spend most of her life in her family halls, and she knew many of Thorin's comrades, all of them brave and loyal. Among them was Farin, son of Burin, who together with his father had fought at Azanulbizar alongside Thorin; a skilled warrior of a noble house, who had later become a merchant; fair-haired, fair-eyed and laughing easily. It was him Dís chose, and he accepted her, for any to refuse would have been a fool, because among her people Dís was a pretty maid, and known for her kind heart and warm smile.

"According to the customs and tradition, Dís would have moved to her husband's halls after the wedding, but as she was the princess and her family halls were the best in Ered Luin, her husband joined the royal family to live with them, for life demanded some traditions were adjusted to the circumstances. Even so, and even despite her friendship with the princess, Run could not be present at Dís' wedding ceremony, for dwarven marriage vows are spoken in Khuzdul, the secret dwarven language, not meant for the ears of elves or men, but only for the Khazad.

"But neither Dís nor her brother were oblivious to local politics, and so they decided to celebrate the princess' marriage with a feast for both dwarves and townsfolk. And from then on, each year the agreement between those two folk was renewed and there was a celebration held, and there was dancing and song and merrymaking.

"After some time, Dís consulted the dwarven midwife, and then her friend Run, and they both told the princess she was with child, and the news brought tremendous joy to Dís and her husband. And the dwarven king, her brother, became even more protective of his sister, and made certain she was always safe and her wishes fulfilled. And hope and joy were rediscovered in the dwarven realm, for all were awaiting the birth of the princess' child, who would be heir to the throne, and Thorin's heir, should the king never marry, and the line of Durin would continue, so at least one burden was taken off Thorin's shoulders.

"Run visited the princess very often, to check on her or to talk, or to ease Dís' fears about childbirth, and her anxiety about becoming a mother, for though Run herself had no experience in those matters, she had seen many new mothers and assisted at many childbirths. And for that constant care Dís thought to repay her friend somehow, but there were no jewels she could offer, for Run would accept none, and there was also no help Run needed from the princess. So in the end Dís thought to share knowledge, and offered to teach her friend some Khuzdul words, despite the fact it was a serious breach of dwarven customs and traditions, for the language of the Khazad is their secret, and jealously guarded. But the princess taught her friend only some common phrases and unimportant words, and found no great fault in repaying kindness in the only way she could. But she kept it a secret from her brother the king, knowing he would have an entirely different opinion on the matter."

"And what about Run?" asked Tilly, curious. "We now know all about what happened in the dwarven realm, but what about her?"

Acwyn laughed a little. "I see even a princess and a king are not enough for you," she said, and everyone around the fire laughed with her.

Tilly pouted, not caring for appearing childish because her wounded pride seemed to take precedence, but Acwyn smiled at her apologetically and slowly the scowl was gone from the girl's face.

"I am sorry, young one, but I laughed to you, not at you," she said, calming and soothing. "But I think you will like the next part of the tale.

"Not much happened in Run's life at the time. She healed, gathered herbs, tended to her garden, and took up ale-brewing once again. She often visited the Dúnadan, and Oswin and his wife, and the dwarven princess, and spent as much time as she could with her friends. At a time she even almost got engaged, but though everyone appreciated her skills as a healer and her dedication to her trade, the man who courted her did not quite appreciate the vision of having a wife that would leave home at inane hours of the night because someone had fallen ill, and so in the end nothing came of it.

"But spending so much time with Oswin and his family, Run had many opportunities to watch his daughter, Sage, and the girl's curiosity clearly reminded her of another girl, many years before. And though Sage had only seen ten winters, Run began contemplating the thought of teaching the girl to become the next healer."

* * *

_As you have probably guessed already, said Took was later known as the Old Took._


	13. Chapter 13

**- 13 -**

"**I** feel guilty for having you care for me," offered Run gently, even though the girl came willingly and her mother gave consent.

Sage shrugged her thin shoulders. "My mother says I never catch anything," she said, unbothered. "And I never do." She was busy preparing the herbs, but when for a moment she turned, Run caught a glimpse of her wide smile.

Maybe, thought Run, that is her gift. She watched the girl thoughtfully, the easy manner with which she proceeded with the task, the natural way her hands had with the herbs. Maybe, thought Run, you are blessed with your name twice, kind girl.

"Would you like to become a healer, Sage?" she asked finally.

Sage offered another of those brilliant childish smiles of hers, but the look in her eyes was much older than any child's should be. "I thought maybe that's why I never catch anything," she explained, as if this was a most obvious and ordinary thing in the world.

"Healing is not just herbs," Run said, warning, but not to frighten, just to open the girl's eyes. "Sometimes it's broken bones and sometimes its torn flesh, and blood and sweat, and it doesn't always smell of herbs too, but of pain and fear. And sometimes there will be wounds you won't be able to heal and people will expect you to do it nonetheless. And sometimes no one will expect you to do it, but you would wish for your life that you could," finished Run softly. "So now I ask you again, and think well before you give the answer."

Sage's features turned thoughtful, the expression looking funny on her freckled, huge-eyes face that was certainly meant for smiles and laughter, not matters like this. "I think life does not always smell of herbs," she answered seriously, wrinkling her nose.

Run let out a quiet laugh, full of wonder at the wisdom children could see sometimes when adults were not able to. Yes, you are blessed with your name twice, little Sage, she thought, and one day you will far exceed my skills as a healer, for you are blessed with all the gifts this trade requires, and have none of the faults which could mar it.

Her musings were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door, and Sage run down the stairs to open. Run heard a loud, deep, booming voice, which she recognised as Dwalin's, and a calmer one, which she knew was Balin's, and a more gentle, higher pitched voice which she knew was Náris, the dwarven midwife and now an aspiring healer, and then there was Sage's merry laughter.

"Mistress Run, we've got company!" the girl shouted, and there were quiet footsteps on the stairs, and, despite the fact the door was open, a polite knock.

"Come in, Náris," Run said, resigned, pulling the woollen shawl tighter around her shoulders. "What are you all doing here?"

The copper-haired dwarf maid flashed a smile. "The princess was worried about you, and she mentioned it to the king. And since we don't fall ill, it seemed logical to offer to take care of you."

"Thank you. And thank the princess, and tell the kings he has my thanks, too. But this is not necessary. The Dúnadan is here for the winter, and he brings me water from the well daily, and Sage brings food, and..."

"And I would like to learn of the illnesses of your folk," Náris interrupted. "And I know you would never say 'no' to someone willing to learn." She smiled again; she was of shy nature, but among those she knew well she was merry and kind, and she quickly found a common language with Sage. "Besides, never say 'no' when a dwarf offers you help."

. . .

**T**hat was, overall, a good winter, cold and with much snow, as Ered Luin winters had it, but with little illness, for the fever was mild that year, and Run came back to health quickly. As there was no much need for her healer skills, she had more free time on her hands, and she was glad of that. She taught Sage about herbs and spent some evenings with her family, talking to Oswin and Ivy; she walked up to the Dúnadan's cottage, or walked in the woods with him; she visited Dís more frequently, and she loved the afternoons in the underground halls warm with fire.

One such day, she was sitting with Dis and her brother, watching Dis embroidering a little gown for her child and sipping mulled ale. At first they talked of everyday, trivial things, and is seemed Thorin was is a good mood, for he talked more than usual, and civilly. Run asked about the progress of expanding the dwarven halls, which seemed to be constantly in build ever since the day first pickaxe had struck the stone, and the king told her they were decorating the halls, and promised to show her the statues of their ancient heroes, and Dís promised to tell some stories about each one. Encouraged, Run asked about the relief on the main gate, and Dís said it was a long story, and Thorin explained that the mountains and the mere were an important place for dwarves, connected to the history of their forefather Durin. Then Run ceased her questions, and all three of them sat by the fire in silence, but a comfortable silence it was; Run watched Dís doing her embroidery, and Thorin smoked his pipe.

"Have you thought of the name yet?" Thorin asked his sister after some time, refilling his pipe.

Dís put her embroidery aside and took a breath; her brother did not notice, but Run did.

"If it's a boy, Frerin," she said mildly, watching her brother closely with what seemed to Run a little bit of anxiety and a great deal of hope.

Thorin stood up abruptly, the pipe clattering to the floor, forgotten. "No," he said with force, and though his voice was not loud, some strong emotion was evident in his tone. "No," he repeated, almost softly. Then he went to the door, accidentally stepping onto his pipe and breaking it, and caring about it not at all, and left, slamming the door shut behind him so strongly it shook on the hinges.

Dís lowered her head in defeat and sighed quietly, and then reached for her embroidery and began working again, but the smile did not come back onto her face.

Run watched the scene, dumfounded, aware she was missing some important details that could help her understand what in Aulë's name was going on.

"Dís..." she began quietly, tentatively. "Who is Frerin?"

Dís sighed again, put the embroidery in her lap and crossed her palm over it, and for a long moment she said nothing. "Our brother," she explained at last, in a voice quiet and most gentle. "He fell at Azanulbizar." Dís turned her head to stare at the flames. "Thorin never mentions him, and doesn't like when others do, as you had a chance to witness." Her gaze grew soft, unfocused. "Frerin was the younger of the two of them, and he died first, and Thorin was there to witness it. He has been carrying guilt with him ever since." Dís sighed again and smiled sadly. "Peculiar, this older brother of mine. Carries much guilt for what he was not responsible for, yet sometimes feels no guilt at all for his own actions, however less significant."


	14. Chapter 14

**- 14 -**

"**I**s it true a dwarven craftsman always recognizes his work?" inquired Run one day, during yet another of her frequent visits to Dís.

"Mostly true, yes. Though they do leave hints which help them," answered Dís. "Each dwarven craftsman has his own sign, whether his name or just the first letter of it, and often some markings connected to the symbol of his clan." Suddenly Dís clapped her hands. "I can show you, if you want."

"Of course I do."

"Then let's go." Dís got up from the armchair and straightened her gown. Her belly was showing clearly now, and she walked about immensely proud and very happy most of the time.

"Go? Where?"

"To the forges."

"Dís, are you certain it's wise?" asked Run, concerned, but the dwarven princess only laughed heartily at her.

"Dear, we're not as fragile as you human women. You won't find many dwarrow ladies not used to the heat of the forges, no matter the state they're in," she said, amused. "Now come on. I'd think I deserve some amusement."

. . .

"**B**e careful and keep to the wall," Dís warned as they approached the forges.

Run smiled. "My uncle was a blacksmith," she said, which she knew was a lie, but explaining everything to the princess would have taken too long. "I know how to behave in a forge."

"Believe me, your smithies are nothing like dwarven forges."

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Run noticed the princess had been right. The smithy in Bree was very warm, but there were windows letting air and wind inside. The forges of Ered Luin were scorching hot, the ventilations shafts providing air of course, but near the hearths the very air was trembling from the heat, and the light was the gold and reds of the fire. And there was a constant sound of many hammers striking against metal and anvil, and steel was glowing white where axes and swords and knives were being shaped.

Dís did not seem perturbed by the heat in the least, but Run initially felt out of breath, and soon she had to wipe droplets of sweat off her face. Dís led her further – no one dared question what the human healer was doing there, not when she walked at the princess' side – and there, in the far corner of the halls, was Balin's brother, Dwalin, in a leather apron thrown over his breeches and protecting his bare chest. He bowed his head to Dís and nodded to Run, but otherwise did not pause from his work, which was an axe of some sort.

Further still, a little apart from the others, where the noise was a tad less loud, was Thorin, working on what seemed to be a hunting knife. He was clad in a dark, short-sleeved tunic and dark breeches, with his beard plaited into a single braid tied or pinned to the tunic's neckline, and his hair too was braided. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings, and when he did not notice them Dís put a finger to her lips to signal to Run they should wait and not disturb him.

Run nodded, and followed the princess' example, leaning against the wall and turning her gaze onto Thorin. In such simple clothes, with his hair damp and a sheen of sweat over his face, he looked not the king, but a man – or a dwarf, in this case – however to call it, he looked like himself, and after having reached armistice and even peace with the king, Run was curious how the talk with the blacksmith would go. He seemed both similar and different than the blacksmith she had met in Bree all those years ago. He certainly worked differently, for there was no anger to his moves now, but precision and quiet purpose, and although she did not see the love of work she had seen in the old smith in Bree, and no contentment, she did see serenity. It came as no surprise he would not find joy in crafting something as simple as a knife, not when he should be crafting swords, or other things dwarven kings were supposed to make in their forges, but there was also no resentment, for at last he was working in his own forge, which he owed to no one's mercy, but only to his own hard work.

Thorin paused, reaching for a cloth to wipe his face, and that was when he noticed them, and he quirked his eyebrows at Dís.

"And what brings my lovely sister to the forges today?" he asked, and Run was surprised to hear tones of teasing in his voice, similar to those she heard when Balin talked to Dwalin, or basically to those any siblings use with each other as a peculiar sign of affection.

"We had a wee talk about the skills of dwarven craftsmen to recognise their craft," Dís explained. "I thought I'd show her."

Thorin shrugged, a little perplexed maybe, but not annoyed. "Very well," he said, wiping his hands on the cloth. Then he turned to a weapon stand at the wall, and took out a sword, simple yet elegant, most certainly something no one in Shire would be interested in.

"I don't know about swords," Run said quietly, as he beckoned her to come closer and examine the weapon. "But this one is beautiful."

Thorin muffled a snort, but this time he refrained from any rash comments for long enough to remember she had not had many occasions of seeing a well crafted sword in her life. "Plausible," he said eventually.

"Is this part of the next shipment to Gondor?" Dís asked, taking the sword from her brother's hand and making an experimental swing.

"No. It's for the Dúnadan," Thorin explained, taking the sword back from Dís, then he motioned for Run to come closer. "You were interested in how we recognise our craft, I hear."

"There's a rumour a dwarven craftsman remembers all the things he ever made," said Run, with a small smile. "But Dís has already somehow shattered my imaginings on the topic."

"Well, that both is and isn't true," Thorin ventured. "It'd be impossible to remember everything one crafts throughout the course of one's life, except for very few items maybe. We do, however, remember all the pieces that are somehow important to us. And thus is how." Thorin pointed at a three small runes, simple and unassuming, engraved at the hilt, where the blade was set. "As my sister had no doubt already explained to you, each dwarven craftsman has his own sign he uses for this purpose."

Run looked at the runes, frowning. She was about to ask what did Thorin's signature stand for, but as the fact that all three runes were identical settled in, she guessed the answer. "These stand for 'Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór', don't they?"

"I see my sister had told you that also."

"I didn't." Dís huffed. "Not as if it's that hard to guess, brother."

Run wondered if her herb knife bore similar marks. Truth to be told, she would have probably overlooked them, or thought them scratches.

Thorin noticed the look on her face. "Brings back memories, doesn't it?" he asked, gesturing towards the furnace and the anvil. Then, seeing Run's slightly aghast expression, he raised both his hands in a gesture of calming and surrender. "Peace, peace. Let's leave it in the past."

Run spotted an amused smile Dís was not even trying to hide; the king had probably shared the story with his sister.

"You still have your knife, don't you?" the princess asked, having seen the knife at work a few times.

"Why, yes... It's a good knife," she said, even though no explanation was expected or necessary, and Thorin actually smiled at her words.

"I should hope so," he said. "And in case you're wondering, yes, there's a mark." His smile faded, but his face seemed more friendly than most times she had seen it so far. "That was an apology to you, and from me, and it would not do to leave it unsigned as if it were an ordinary knife."

"That's definitely a story which needs to be retold sometime," Dís remarked, to which both Thorin and Run answered with a fierce 'No!', and Dís laughed out so heartily that Dwalin glanced up from his work to see what the commotion was about. "Only jesting," she said, putting a hand on Thorin's shoulder. "Come dine with us, brother, will you?"

"Later," he agreed, and Dís led Run out of the forges.

And indeed later, when Run was finished with teaching Dís of herbs, and Dís with teaching her friend some new Khuzdul words, Thorin did join them at dinner, and talked with sister and the healer alike, and he seemed quite civil and at times almost friendly. And for the first time Run had a chance to see him as his sister did, not just a haughty, broody king, but someone who did actually smile and could even jest, and though he was still a rather difficult companion, for the first time it seemed all the patience and effort could in the end prove quite worth it.


	15. Chapter 15

**- 15 -**

"**E**very time I see the gates to your halls, they never fail to impress me," Run admitted as she settled onto a bench, which was covered with a wolf pelt, and she took up a mug of mulled ale and sipped it, enjoying the warmth.

"Our craftsmen are among the finest," Dís said proudly. "Though it is said we cannot even compare to the craftsmen of old, like those who built Khazad-Dûm. There are many tales and legends and songs of that realm, all so fine that each time I hear them, I wish I had seen it."

"Khazad-Dûm was the oldest of dwarven realms, and the best known, but there were more Khazad kingdoms, now lost. These mountains too were a dwarven realm once," Thorin said, stuffing his pipe. "The ancient realms of Gabilgathod and Tumunzahar, or Belegost and Nogrod as they were called by elves and men, were hidden somewhere beneath these peaks. Many renown craftsmen lived here, and many great smiths of old, like Gamil Zirak, whose name we still remember, and Telchar, his apprentice, who is said to have forged a blade that became the sword of Elendil." He broke off and listened, and in a while muffled echoes of a talk came from the hall.

"Farin is back!" Dís exclaimed. She sprang up from her chair and hurried off to greet her husband, so Thorin and Run were left alone. The king was smoking his pipe, and though he did not speak, the silence between them was not oppressive, and she watched the thin veil of smoke forming a ghostly crown around his head.

"I've never thought you would be fond of the tales of old, Majesty," Run said eventually, in a quiet voice that would not disturb the peace of the moment.

"Nay, I'm not. Not that much, anyway. Dís, well, that's a different story." He dragged on the pipe and slowly exhaled a puff of smoke that came out a thin coiling cloud like mountain mist. "Most of the stories I know, I know from her." There came another long interval of silence. "There was no time for that, not for me. That was a time of work and fight, not of tales," he said, but did not explain, and Run knew better than to ask.

"Forgive me my boldness, Majesty," she began hesitantly. "But the way you care of her, of Dís..."

Thorin raised his eyebrows. "What about it?" he asked in a calm voice, which could have been an innocent question or a sign of an upcoming storm.

"It holds a beauty to it," Run said sincerely. "Seeing such things..." she broke off, searching for the right word, very aware Thorin was watching her with what could have been interest or warning, or both. "A soothing salve for heart and spirit, that's what it is," she finished.

"Well, well... Not only a healer, but also a poet?" he said in a voice that might have been read as anything.

"I meant no offence, Majesty."

Thorin looked at her. "Neither did I." He fell silent again, and spoke no more for a time so long Run thought he would not speak to her again this evening, and that was when he decided to talk. "A most curious thing... My sister is married, and with child, and I know well she is a grown woman by now, and yet to some part of me she will always be my little sister."

Run smiled, tentatively. "A curious thing indeed, brotherly love."

"Now, now, enough," he said curtly, but there was no anger to his eyes, as if he no longer cared if she knew, or rather as if he did not feel it necessary to hide those things from her, and it told Run clearly she had gained the dwarven king's trust at last. "That's no way to speak to a king."

"No." She looked at him and briefly held his gaze. "That's a way to speak to a friend."

Surprisingly, the corners of Thorin's lips quirked up and there it was, a smile, fleeting, but real nonetheless. "It may be," he acquiesced. "It may be."

. . .

**B**alin had brought her to the halls, and Run was waiting for Dís, standing beside the fire with her hands outstretched towards the flame. The spring was coming already, crocuses blooming shyly on the snow-covered mountain meadows, and first birdsong audible in the air, but the nights and mornings were still cold, and her hands always got cold even despite the woollen mittens.

There were footsteps at the door, but heavier that the princess', and Run guessed it was Thorin. She turned with a smile of welcome, and, encouraged by what he had said to her words about friendship the last time they had met, she thought to greet him in Khuzdul, knowing it was a language meant for important things, and so hoping to show the dwarven king she did appreciate his friendship. Momentarily, she hesitated, but there was no scowl on Thorin's face, and when he saw her he nodded to her in greeting, so she decided to try her luck.

"Shamukh," Run said when he entered the room.

Thorin stopped dead in his track, and though his face remained stone, his eyes flared. "Who taught you?" he asked grimly, and though he did not yell, there was an undertone to his voice not unlike a distant rumble of incoming thunder.

Run kept her eyes calmly fixed on his, but said nothing, thinking whether she should give Dís away, or rather keep their Khuzdul lessons a secret.

"Who taught you?" repeated Thorin, this time with more force.

And Run felt a vague fear stirring in her mind, but again said nothing, suddenly recalling Balin's remark that to teach Khuzdul to a stranger was a grave offence, bordering on treason.

"I did." Dís stood at the door, her head held up proudly, hands on her hips, and everything about her stance was yelling 'now try to argue with me, if you dare'.

There was no doubt that Thorin would dare, but Dís brought her hands forward and clasped her palms gently over her belly, a perfect picture of a dwarven mother-to-be, and the importance of the fact made Thorin deflate somehow, and he closed his mouth before any sound came out of it. This, at least, he understood.

"I had nothing to repay for Run's care with but knowledge," Dís said. "And I'd think a new life is worth more than a few words of any language, especially as secret ones as 'good evening' or 'thank you'."

Thorin scowled at her. "Well, then." His voice lost some of its force, as if he realised his sister defeated him this time, or, though it was much less probable yet not quite impossible, as if he surrendered willingly. "You can as well try to teach her the rest of it," he said flatly, then turned his back on them and marched out of the room.

"Don't mind him," offered Dís, putting a hand amiably on Run's shoulder and smiling at her apologetically. The smile was quickly wiped off her face, but her features remained soft, and the look in her eyes was not sombre, just vaguely tired. "Life is more important than a few common words of a secret language. I understand this." She paused and suppressed a sigh. "So does Thorin."

"It's not like I'll be going around teaching everyone," Run said quietly.

Dís waved her hand dismissively, corners of her lips curling upwards again. "Oh, I know that. You're a healer. It's part of the trade to be privy to some things others are not, and it's part of the trade it should all remain a secret, and I have no doubts you'll keep it so." Dís paused. "I'm not without a fault in this, but still I think he might have taken it more gracefully. Well, on second thought... He wouldn't be the brother I know, then."

"Is he always that difficult?"

"He can be." Dís' voice softened. "And he can be the best brother I could ever ask Mahal for. Sometimes I can't decide. And sometimes he can be both at once." She smiled briefly. "I guess that's the case with all siblings, and I bet he'd say the same of me, was he ever inclined that way." Dís paused. "Ah, but I see you've missed the meaning of what he said before he left."

"Oh?" Run was certain there was nothing to miss, except that what she had done was against some dwarven custom, which she knew already.

"He actually meant what he said. That I can teach you."

Run blinked, puzzled. "Surely this can't be..."

"Dear, he's my brother, and I'd say I know him a little better than you do. However irritated or angry, he'd never jest on the matter." Dís paused. "I told you he understands. He wouldn't let you know, he's too proud for that, but he does."

"That's..." Suddenly, Run laughed, all her anxiety evaporating into nothing. "I'm sorry, but considering all the implications, it's a little overwhelming."

"Mind you, he is not happy about it."

"But you said he agreed?"

Dís smiled, and her eyes twinkled merrily. "Oh, that's because he knows better than to argue with me."


	16. Chapter 16

**- 16 -**

**D**ís had been right, for Thorin did not argue with her, and did not mention the topic again. But when before he had talked to Run sometimes, now each time she visited the dwarven halls he simply walked by, and glared at her, but did not spare her a word.

Run wished it had not worried her; but even though Thorin's behaviour did not touch her all that much, she could see he that he became colder to Dís, even if never impolite. She was just a healer, and not a part of their underground world, and did not wish to be the cause of discord between the royal siblings. But when she told Dís of her worries, the princess only laughed.

"Ah, he'll come to, eventually." Dís' smile had a hint of mockery in it, but her eyes were merry and warm, and her jesting had no malice to it. "But you see, to actually say out loud that he came to terms with this would be a terrible blow to his pride." Her smile softened, becoming sadder and more pensive. "I think it's all a tad too difficult for him. What happened to our father, and all the kingship matters... And the fact his little sister is married and expecting a child, and... We've always been there for each other. We've not exactly been close, but we were the closest family. And now I have my own family... I think Thorin feels a little left out." Dís shook her head. "Though he would never say it out loud, of course."

Run had to smile at the look on the princess' face. "You love him."

"How could I not?" Dís smiled fondly. "He's my brother. He's always cared for me. He does so even now." She laughed. "He thinks I don't know it was him who ordered Balin to keep me company when Farin is gone, and to make sure I have everything I might need." Dís paused. "And despite his behaviour of late, he considers you a friend."

But Run found the concept a tad difficult to believe in. "Dís, don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. Thorin is, if anyone." Dís paused. "You see, if you were but a stranger to him, he would just ignore you."

"I might be wrong, but it seems to me it's exactly what he's doing," prompted Run.

"Ah, no, he's not. He scowls every time he sees you and that's not ignoring, because he has to notice you each time to do so," Dís explained. "He considered you... Well, maybe to say a friend would be an overstatement, but you have earned his respect, and he had some trust in you. And now you've broken our laws he doesn't know what to do with it." She paused and glanced at Run. "Yes, yes, I know, it was my idea, and you let me talk you into it."

"It didn't take a lot of talking into," Run contradicted. "Knowledge is my weakness, so when you gave me a chance to learn something new, I leapt at that chance."

"Yes, but you would have never thought of it on your own." Dís sighed. "I made a mess of things, I have to finally think of something to unmake it." She put a hand on her belly. "Maybe my child will soon help me in this."

. . .

"**Y**our little prince." Run put the child into Dís' arms, and the look on the princess' face was all the thanks she needed; Dís was tired, her forehead beaded with sweat and her hair damp, but she was glowing with happiness, and her smile had a depth to it that had never been there before.

"Thank you." Dís nodded to her, then leaned over her son. "He's perfect."

"You want me to call them in already?"

"Yes. If my husband didn't faint." Dís laughed feebly; even though giving birth seemed to have come easier to her than to human women, which maybe was common for dwarven ladies, she was still exhausted. "I've never seen Farin so scared." She kissed her son's forehead. "See, my little prince? You're more scary than orcs and wargs, apparently."

Run took off her apron and handed it to Náris, washed her hands, and opened the door and walked out into the corridor.

Farin and Thorin were there, but while the latter was calmly standing by the door, his hands crossed behind his back, the former was pacing nervously to and fro. There was a tiniest hint of a smile on Thorin's face, as if his brother-in-law's anxiety amused him.

"Princess Dís calls you in, gentlemen," Run said, smiling. "A little prince has arrived, and she wants to present him to you."

Dís' husband hurried inside at once, as close to running as was appropriate for a husband of a royal princess. But Thorin did not move, and Run looked at him questioningly.

"This is their moment, not mine," he said simply, but there was something like an echo of resignation in his voice, and she understood that Dís had been right, for from now on he would always be a little aside, and would not fully feel a part of the family, would have felt like that since Dís' wedding actually if her husband had not been away so often.

Run nodded, going to leave; her role here was over, and she could go home and rest. Soon there would be a grand celebration of announcing Dís' little boy as Durin's heir, as Thorin's heir, and Dís had already invited her a few times, and she would come to share her friend's joy. But Thorin was right: now was their time, not his, not hers.

"There's mulled ale," Thorin offered, his voice politely neutral.

Run glanced at him, but his face betrayed nothing. And yet he asked her to stay and rest here awhile, so she guessed she was at least partly forgiven for learning those few words of the secret dwarven tongue.

"I'd like that," she said, nodding once, and Thorin gestured towards the open door.

They went inside, and he poured them some ale, and they stood by the fireplace, sipping their drinks.

"Good it's finally over," Thorin said. "I've never seen a dwarf faint, but my brother-in-law looked very close to that."

Run looked at him, but his face was serious, and stone, but then she spotted it: a tiniest flicker of humour in his eyes, so very difficult to notice, and she laughed.

"Well, that's something common in first-time fathers," she explained merrily. She took a sip of her ale, sniffing at the scent of honey and clove. "But what about you, Majesty? Wasn't the older brother anxious? Afraid for his little sister a bit?"

Thorin thought over the answer, then finally spoke. "No." He looked at her, and that glance was a peace offering, and she held his gaze, accepting it. "I know your skills by now, Furkhinh." He called her the other name his folk named her, Life-lady, and coming from his lips that word was the highest praise of her skills, and his way of thanking for her assistance.

"I am humbled by your trust, Majesty," she muttered. "But you should know that sometimes skills are not enough."

"Indeed, sometimes they are not," he agreed solemnly. "And that is when we call upon Mahal, our creator and patron, for his mercy and grace." He paused and glanced at her thoughtfully. "But ever since your arrival to Ered Luin I have not heard of a time your skills were not enough. So it would seem that your patron, Yavanna, stands by you and makes certain your herbs would be enough."

There was another short period of silence, and again it was Thorin who spoke first.

"How are you Khuzdul lessons?" he asked, attempting to make conversation.

"With my skills maybe I'll be able to introduce myself and ask about the weather, well, by the end of my life." Run laughed a little, but the significance of the fact he asked about it in a normal talk did not go unnoticed. "Khuzdul is difficult for those who were not born among the rocks."

Thorin scowled at her, and anger flashed in his eyes. "Khuzdul in no laughing matter," he said through gritted teeth, but managed to keep his voice calm.

"I am sorry, Majesty," Run offered a hasty apology. "I meant no offence."

"None taken," Thorin muttered, but it was not quite heartfelt.

"Majesty?" she said quietly after a while, when she noticed the flames in his eyes burned out.

Thorin glanced up at her, but said nothing.

"I did not mean to offend you," Run explained cautiously, because despite how touchy and prideful he was sometimes, she had no wish to ruin this tentative friendship that had been slowly weaving between them. "I might have chosen the subject of my jest poorly, but I was only trying to make you laugh."

He looked at her, slightly baffled, but still said nothing, which might have been a good sign this time.

"You should laugh more, Majesty," she added, offering a hesitant smile. "It's good for health."

He did not laugh, but the scowl was gone from his face. "No offence taken," he repeated, and this time it sounded genuine.

There was a knock at the door, and Náris entered, beaming.

"The princess would like to see you, my lord," she said with a bow.

Thorin nodded and got up, and Run stood up, too.

"It's time for me to go," she said. "I shouldn't keep Balin waiting for too long."

They both followed Náris, and at the door to Dís' room Run said her goodbyes, and Thorin wished her a good night. But as he entered, he did not close the door behind him, and as Dís noticed her she smiled happily, and her husband briefly bowed his head to Run in thanks. Thorin came closer, and leaned over his sister and kissed her forehead, and smiled at her warmly, and Dís laughed.

And then she carefully put the tiny bundle she was holding into Thorin's arms, and for a moment he looked terrified, but then he glanced at his sister, and at the child in his arms, and the look on his face and in his eyes turned surprisingly tender. And Run quietly walked away, feeling she had been witness to something she should not have seen.


	17. Chapter 17

_Thank you for reading and reviewing! (And it's high time I answered some of the comments, really...)_

_**dearreader**: I'm glad it looks like a story which was originally told; storytelling will be an important theme later on._

_**DownliftedAndUnderwhelmed**: A few more layers still to go. And I'm so happy the toy soldier got some notice :)  
_

_**pronker**: It took me some time to find a key to unlocking Thorin's character. That key was Dís, so brother-sister relations are important here._

_**Sofasoap**: Thorin's stubbornness is one thing, but sometimes he is right, even if he expresses it poorly, isn't he? _

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**- 17 -**

**T**he bell at the door tolled quietly, and she hurried downstairs, throwing a woollen shawl around her shoulders, slightly worried, because at such a late hour it could only be someone coming to ask her for help. When the door opened, the dim candlelight revealed a blue hood with a long silver tassel, and if Run had any doubts at the visitor's identity, for his face was hidden in the shadow, they were dispersed instantly, as a single dark braid had slipped from under the blue hood, and she could recognise the markings of the clan of Durin on the mithril clasp.

"Majesty," she greeted, stepping aside to let him enter before the cold wind would make her freeze over.

Thorin entered, shaking the snow off his hood and cloak. "Don't be ridiculous," he snorted, which came out muffled as he was pulling the hood off his head. "Just Thorin. I thought we've already established that," he added, unclasping the simple iron brooch and sliding the cloak off his shoulders, then hanging it at one of the nails sticking out of the wall.

Run gestured, inviting him to the kitchen – not the best place for receiving visitors, she knew, but that was where the table and a few stools were, and it was the warmest place in the house. Thorin took a seat, and when she offered him small ale, he accepted the mug. She poured another mug for herself, and for a while they simply sat together, sipping their drinks and enjoying the warmth radiating off the hearth.

Run did not ask him what brought him to her door. One of the things had learned over the years in Ered Luin was that when dealing with Thorin Oakenshield, there was no point in trying to get anything out of him by persuasion, and that the key to that was patience, because if he wanted to, in due time he would tell everything.

Finally Thorin set down the half-empty mug, reached to his belt and untied a small sack, then laid it on the table and lightly pushed it towards her. "I never suitably thanked you for delivering my nephew and heir, nor for caring for my sister."

Run offered a brief smile in reply. "I'm a healer. I ask for nothing in return, certainly not for payment."

"Yes, I remember. It's no payment," he explained. "It's a gift." He watched her, waiting. "Medrûnat. Go on, open it." That he used a Khuzdul word in her presence said more clearly than any other thing might have that he finally accepted her.

She reached out, pulled the sack closer and carefully untied the sash. Inside, there were maybe a dozen metal clasps, not unlike those she had seen Dís wear, or even Thorin. There were some markings on each of the clasps, so she took out one of the beads and brought it closer to the candlelight, to examine it. Cast in metal there was the symbol she wore stitched on her kerchief, a simplified flower, of which she had once said half in jest that it was a flower of Yavanna, a symbol of her own herbal lore, and strangely, it had become thus.

"I had to ask Dís to draw it," admitted Thorin, a corner of his lips curling upwards slightly. Clearly, he was in one of his better moods.

"That's very... considerate." Run smiled, genuinely surprised and pleased by his gift. It was a gift she could accept as a healer: it was no treasure, just honest craftsmanship, and done not simply to give something in return for help, but done specifically with her in mind. It had time put into it, and work, and thoughtfulness, and maybe a little heart, and therefore it was a true gift. "Thank you. Âkminrûk zu."

To her amazement, he laughed. "I see that despite your fears you got at least one phrase right."

"Seems we're all making slow progress," she countered, not defining whom and what progress she meant, but by the way he kept his gaze pointedly fixed on the embers she guessed he could tell what she implied.

"Aye, that we are," he said, and it was her turn to laugh. "Would you mind?" he asked after a while, taking out his pipe.

She shook her head, and soon Thorin was blowing smoke rings, sending them towards the hearth, from where they disappeared up into the chimney. Run meanwhile undid her kerchief and was dividing her unruly hair into strands, which she was plaiting into small braids, securing each one with a clasp. Some strange peace settled over her and over the room, with no sound but the creaking of the wood in the fireplace, slight clicks of the clasps being closed on her hair, and muffled huffs when Thorin was blowing out the smoke rings, and with no light but the small fire, the single candle and the tiny glow of tobacco burning in Thorin's pipe, now and then lighting up his face. The quietness enveloped them, and Run could almost hear it trickling into her mind and heart, smoothing out the worries and leaving contended peace in its wake. There was not much she could talk to Thorin about, in truth, or he to her, but there was some comfort in discovering they did not necessarily have to talk, and that while they were not always able to share words gracefully, they could share silence.

"What metal is it?" asked Run quietly, not wishing to break the mood.

"Iron." Thorin glanced at her through the thin curtain of smoke, then frowned a little, not knowing what to make of the look on her face and her lack of reply. "I thought it suits you better than silver," he added, as if that explained everything, and Run laughed, which only seemed to confuse him further.

"Yes, I think so, too," she said.

He kept watching as she returned to braiding her hair. "In everyday matters, iron is more important than any silver, or so people say," he muttered eventually, raising the pipe to his lips again.

Run stopped plaiting her hair and glanced up, and it was her turn to be confused. She watched Thorin smoking his pipe, seemingly oblivious to her presence, and thought how strange he was to her, and how every time when she thought she had figured him out, there was something new to be discovered. She wondered if it was the same for him, then thought it probably had to be. Confusing, that was what she would call their acquaintance, for relationship would be far too big a word. Confusing.

"So do people say," she agreed softly, almost but not quite in a whisper.

Thorin spared her a glance, but again she did now know what to make of it. Friendship would be an overstatement, but they were – ever so slowly – getting there, and it struck her that maybe it was an unnecessary complication, because was it not, with him being the king in exile, and her being the town healer, and all the dwarven traditions she did not understand, and all the human customs that were foreign to him?

But then she let herself drift off into the peace and quiet, and thought that really the world was a strange place, and folk inhabiting it even stranger, because it was turning out that silence was the best way of talking. Neither could misunderstand the other without words, and finally she smiled slightly, and saw a similar look on Thorin's thoughtful face, more relaxed that she had ever seen it, and guessed he was probably thinking something along the lines of what she was thinking of. As she was looking at him, Thorin looked up at her again, and offered a smile, small, but genuine, first such she had ever seen gracing his features, and as she smiled back, she has an impression a kind of unspoken agreement had just been kindled between them.

Not much later, Thorin got up, and still without a word she walked him to the door, waited for him to slip on his cloak and hood, and opened the door for him. On the threshold, with his hand on the handle, Thorin halted, then turned back towards her.

"Âkminrûk zu," he said quietly, and though she could no longer see his face, obscured by the shadows under the hood, she understood he thanked her not for the ale or hospitality, but for her help and for taking care of Dís and her newborn child.

"You are welcome," she answered, equally quietly, then strained her memory a bit to find out whether her very limited knowledge of Khuzdul would supply an appropriate phrase. "Yâdùshun."

"Much too formal for the occasion," corrected Thorin, apparently vaguely amused, judging by the tone of his voice.

"Khuzdul is difficult for those who were not born among rocks," mumbled Run, before thinking better of it.

This time, however, Thorin took no offence, and laughed even. "There is no hope for you, in that case," he retorted, making her snort in amusement. "And the phrase you're looking for is 'yamal'." He nodded to her. "Goodnight, Zâraminh," he said, using the name she was known by among the dwarves of Ered Luin.

"Goodnight, Majesty," she answered, partly as some kind of a jest he allowed her, partly because she felt calling him by his name would be too familiar.

Strange fellow, she thought, standing at her tiny kitchen window and watching Thorin disappear into the shadows. Poor Dís, having to bear him and his temper on a daily basis, she thought then, and laughed.

He truly was a strange fellow, to think of it, often quiet and gloomy, and seldom smiling, and his rage came sudden and unpredictable and violent like a thunderstorm, but sometimes passed just as quickly as it came. A strange fellow, Run thought again. But still, she found him not entirely an unpleasant companion, and surprisingly a quite welcome friend.


	18. Chapter 18

___Thank you all for reading, faving and, last but not least, for reviewing!_

_**DownliftedAndUnderwhelmed**: I'm trying to do this by the book ;) so the original hood was a must._

_**TheRealProtector**: But remember, we're talking about book-Thorin here, and he's a bit different than film-Thorin ;)_

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**- 18 -**

"**I**t seemed that her mother's choice of name had brought her plenty in one thing at least: laughter. And even though Run did not quite realise it yet, she was blessed with a gift to be able to pick these little everyday joys like she picked her herbs. It might have been that she had learned this from Radagast, without even knowing so, for he could not only heal the body, but also mend the spirit, though where he was an artist, she was an apprentice craftsman at best.

"But sometimes that is enough, and as she was also granted the gift of patience, she slowly gained some trust of the gloomy king in exile, and even though friendship would be much too big a word, there was some connection kindled between them. Maybe it was that to her, like to his sister Dís, he was no king, but a man first, and maybe it was that unlike his sister Dís, she did not share his everyday concerns and thus around her he could push them away from his mind, however briefly. Or maybe it was that she offered him enough respect, and yet still found place for jest and laughter, which were all too rare in his life.

"Whatever that was, Thorin no longer frowned when the healer came to visit his sister, nor when the two talked quietly by the fire and laughed, and sometimes he even joined them at supper, or later in the evening he would call Balin and Dwalin, the family's closest friends, and they would bring out their instruments and play the still remembered songs of the lost realm of Erebor, or recall the tales and legends of old. And thus slowly some warmth trickled into the carved stone halls of Thorintûmhu, not the warmth of the forges, but of that fire which burns in the hearts and fuels life.

"And it seemed that with the birth of Dís' son joy had returned to the dwarves of Ered Luin. The little prince was growing up healthy and merry, and lively, and when he learned to walk and talk he kept everyone busy. And when the boy's father was away, Thorin cared for his nephew, and taught him Khuzdul, and played with him, and had a wooden toy sword made for him, and Dís was not certain whether she was more disappointed that her husband could not do all those things for their son, or happy for her brother. For Thorin loved his nephew dearly, almost as if Fíli had been his own son, and Dís could see her brother smiled more often, and it seemed Fíli's bright presence mended some things that had remained broken for too long.

"And each time Fíli approached his uncle with a hopeful smile, pleading eyes and a wooden sword in his little hands, Thorin would smile back and always agree to play with his nephew, no matter how tired he was. Yet sometimes, when Run watched them, she could see that every time Fíli shouted something about 'big bad orcs', Thorin's smile came forced. Dís had, reluctantly, told her of the battle of Azanulbizar, and now Run could see it reflected in Thorin face. But Fíli did not, nor did he understand, and Thorin was in no hurry to explain it.

"But each time Run watched them, she could see the soft look in Thorin's eyes as his nephew laughed, delighted, when Thorin would eventually feign falling down onto the bearskin beside the hearth, allowing Fíli to win again and again. Fíli would then ran up to his mother, beaming, or sit across Thorin's chest, proudly announcing that he bravely fought the orc and won. And each time, as Thorin slowly sat up, clothes slightly dishevelled, his hair a mess, and his face flushed a little from movement and laughter, Run could see that in the end his laughter was heartfelt. For Thorin would be pained by memories, but gladdened by his nephews's joy, which seemed to make up for the hurt somehow. As a healer, she knew well that to heal a broken arm or leg, it would take the pain of setting it, and she knew it took much more pain to mend a broken heart. And Run would smile a little at that, because Thorin accepted the pain together with the joy, and bit by bit, little by little, she could see the laughter of his nephew soothe the wounds and fill the holes in Thorin's heart.

"That was overall a peaceful time for everyone, including the dwarven king. His people did prosper, after a fashion, and they all had home and there was no need to struggle, for they had a peaceful life carved for them. His sister was happily married and now a mother, and the line of Durin was secure. And king Thorin suddenly found his cares lifted off his shoulders, for he no longer had to worry about the future of his people or his clan, and he could think of himself. But ever since adolescence and late childhood even, he had been taught to think of his people and family first, and now that he could finally think of his own happiness, he found he did not know how to do it, because he had never done it before, and being that carefree perplexed him rather than pleased.

"He could now think of marriage – he did not have to marry, as Durin's line was secure since the birth of his nephew – but he could, should he choose to. Except that he was not certain he wanted to. There were pretty, eligible dwarven ladies about, but so far he had always been the king only, and none dared choose him in fear of rejection. And Thorin was used to solitary life, and was not certain if he truly wanted to share his life that much with anyone.

"So when he was not busy either in his throne room or in his office, or the forge, or with his nephew, he would go out onto the small mountain meadow to sit in silence and think, and sometimes just to simply enjoy peace. Sometimes, he would meet the healer there, and they would talk, and as the king opened up to her a little, bit by bit, she would come there more often. And slowly friendship was weaved between them. For Run could talk when he would not, and despite his efforts she would make him smile, but she also knew when to be silent, so that he could talk."

"And so for years men and dwarves of Ered Luin lived as men and dwarves had lived in Dale and Erebor, side by side and even if not always in complete peace, then at least in agreement, honoured by both sides. There were many occasions for the two folk to meet, on a daily basis during business, on an evening basis over a pint mug of beer, sometimes by the healer's fire to share stories and tales, and sometimes at the newly built inn, to dance and sing.

"And once a year, to remind everyone of the agreement, the dwarven king in exile left his stone halls and the mayor of the town left his house, and half the distance between the mountains and the town there were fires being lit, and all kinds of musical instrument being tuned, and there was food and drink, and then there was shared merriment. Gathering, the celebration was called. The mayor would sit at the table beside the king, their families beside them, but the common folk would chat and joke and laugh and drink and dance all the night, dwarves and men alike.

"And one of such nights I shall now describe to you."

"Oh, I know!" Tilly beamed. "She'll dance with the king, right? Of course she will!"

"Quiet, silly!" her brother made a face at her.

"Peace, peace. How unbecoming is it to argue while listening to a tale of celebrating peaceful life together?" asked Acwyn. Then she added: "I'm sorry to disappoint you, dear, but no, no dancing with the king that night. You see, dwarven ceremonial robes, with armour parts and armoured boots and a fur cloak, are not fit for dancing. Some of the common folk would put simpler clothes on their backs, and much lighter, simple leather boots, and those would dance. But the king would sit by the table and talk a little with the mayor, listen to his sister's merry chatter and watch others dance, and would remember the times of Erebor and Dale, and thus the merriment would taste bitter for him those nights."

"Did she at least comfort him?" asked Tilly, and friendly laughter echoed around the fire.

"With the whole town and all the Durin's folk of Ered Luin watching?" Acwyn smiled mildly. "That wouldn't be the wisest idea, don't you think? Besides, why should she, when he was barely her friend at the time?

"Run sat amongst the townsfolk, with Sage usually by her side, and drank a little and ate a proper amount more, and sang along with the others when there was a song, even if her voice was not quite meant to ever be used for singing, and danced a lot, with as much grace as most of the other townswomen. And she would smile a lot, smile wide and from the bottom of her heart, for when she saw that others around her were happy, she drew strength from that, and she would laugh a lot, and even if her laughter was not silver like bells or fountains, it lit up her face, as is the case with any heartfelt laughter.

"And sometimes, when the king and the mayor would get up and go look at the dancers from up close, Run would feel the king's eyes drifting towards her sometimes. He would stand a little aside, a cup of ale or wine in hand, his face a little less gloomy that usually, despite the memories, and sometimes he would tap his foot to the rhythm, which would earn him smiles of the townsfolk and cheers of his kin, and each time Run would see that she would laugh even louder, for the world surely had to be a merry place if Thorin Oakenshield did join the festivities in his own peculiar way. And if their eyes would meet one of those moments, she would think that with a smile on his face he looked almost kind, and that maybe it would do him good to dance. And he would think that even in her best dress and with her hair plaited she still did not look pretty, but when she laughed and her eyes gleamed with joy, he thought that maybe it would do him good to dance with her."


	19. Chapter 19

_-Answering comments-  
_

**pronker: **_I think Thorin would thank Mahal for not having internet every day if he glimpsed some of the fanarts..._

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**- 19 -**

**T**he band, if they could be called that, stroke a merry tune of another jig, and Run felt someone tap her shoulder, and when she turned she saw Balin smiling at her friendly.

"A nice evening, lass, isn't it?" he asked.

And a nice evening it was indeed. It was the beginning of summer, the air was warm and the mountain meadows fair with flowers, and common folk rejoiced, and they sometimes met in the town, beside the inn, men and dwarves alike, and they would drink and dance, make music and sing, exactly as they were doing this night.

"Indeed, Master Balin, it is," she smiled broadly.

They joined the other dancers, and it turned out that without the armoured boots and in the leather ones instead, Balin was not quite a bad dancer, and went through all the hops and jigs and twirls with little experience, but much enthusiasm. They danced on, doing all the little jumps, walking in the circle, if that could be called walking with that many hops into it, and twirling, and Balin gave an incoherent, merry shout a few times, and Run laughed quite a lot, and around them folk of both races danced and clapped their hands and cheered.

Then at one of the twirls, when Balin did actually lift her off the ground a bit, with little to no effort, she spotted, among a few coloured hoods in the crowd, a familiar blue one with a silver tassel. Thorin was standing near the dancers, leaning against the fence and smoking his pipe, his face obscured by the shadows, but still she could tell he was watching them. Run smiled at him, involuntarily, and the smile remained on her face until the end of a dance, when Balin lifted her off the ground again and spun her round, and she gave an undignified sound frighteningly close to a squeak, for he surprised her, and then when he set her back on her feet they both laughed so hard they almost bent over. And when she straightened and glanced at Thorin, his lips, which were not quite hidden in the shadows, were curled up in a slightest of smiles. Run thought that she surely had enough ale that night to be able to blame it on too good humour induced by alcohol, turned towards him and flourished a curtsey, and Thorin started, and then a full smile graced his face. And as he stepped closer and came out of the shadows to chat with Balin, and offered Run a curt nod, she thought that truly the smile did grace his face, because for once he looked kind, and once more Run thought that maybe Balin had been right and that somewhere under all the stone, there indeed was a beating heart.

. . .

Though travellers and townsfolk, and occasionally also some dwarves, met beside a fire near her house often, sometimes when the day was quiet Run invited her friends, and only them. And together they sat by the fire, and shared tales and songs, and Run treasured those moments dearly, because she knew that to her friends she was herself first, and the healer second.

The day seemed quiet and uneventful, and there were no travellers in the town, so Run invited the Dúnadan, and Oswin and his family. She also invited Balin, and said he could bring his brother, too, but he answered that Dwalin had gone to Grey Havens, escorting the traders, but promised to come.

And so in the evening there was a small fire cracking merrily beside Run's house, and she was seated on a tree stump nearby, and next to her was the Dúnadan, and their friend Oswin the hunter, and his wife Ivy, and their daughter Sage, and Ivy's sister Bell with her little daughter Joy asleep in her lap. Run was chatting quietly with Ivy, and Oswin was asking the Dúnadan about the state of the roads to Bree, both men sipping mead as they talked, but Sage, Ivy and Bell were drinking mint and camomile.

There was a sound of footsteps on the road, nothing extraordinary as the night was still young, and from the shadows emerged two dwarves, one wearing a red hood, and the other a blue hood with a long silver tassel. And, recognising Balin instantly, Run was surprised to see that his companion was none other than king Thorin Oakenshield. But then she thought of those few evenings in Bree, years ago, and came to the conclusion even a king needed rest sometimes, and there was no reason why he should not seek it.

So she invited both dwarves to join them, and offered them mead, and gladly they accepted and settled beside the fire. And after some more inconsequential talk, the men drew out their pipes, and it was a sign it was time for tales. As usually, the Dúnadan began, and he sang a tale of the demise of Númenor, which Ivy found not too much to her liking, but Sage stared at the Ranger with eyes wide with excitement and curiosity.

Then Oswin told a tale, or rather what was more like a legend to the folk of Ered Luin, of ancient dwarven kingdoms buried deep beneath the Blue Mountains, and how it was still possible to sometimes find a shard of an axe or a piece of an armour among the rock here and there. And, surprisingly, Thorin took up the tale, and told of the kingdoms of old, Belegost and Nogrod, Gabilgathod and Tumunzahar in the dwarven tongue, and how the dwarven cities had been carved in stone, and of their prosperity and splendour, and of the great smiths Gamil Zirak and his apprentice Telchar, who had forged Narsil, which had later became the sword of Elendil. And when he finished Run thanked him for the tale, and Sage stared at him even more bewildered and enchanted than she had been by the Dúnadan's tale, and as Thorin fell silent Sage clapped her hands in delight. And, even though the shadows beneath the hood obscured most of his face, Run spotted a ghost of a smile on the king's lips at seeing the girl's joy, and thought that maybe there was still more to him than she knew.

Then it was Run's turn to talk, and she spoke of the elven refuge, Imladris, and of Lord Elrond and his kin, and pretty much just described the marvels and peace of Rivendell, and of the beautiful mountain vale itself, and of its many waterfalls. The Dúnadan, Oswin and both dwarves refilled their pipes and were smoking again, and Joy, who had meanwhile woken up, slipped off her mother's lap to chase the smoke rings, and Thorin began sending them in all the different directions, and Joy laughed, and Sage laughed with her, and the dwarven king smiled. And Run, weaving her tale, watched the scene, thoughtful.


	20. Chapter 20

_In this chapter: something you've probably been waiting for since the beginning of this fanfic :)_

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**- 20 -**

Run went up to the mountains to look for herbs, and was somehow surprised when she met someone in the woods and that someone turned out to be Thorin. There was a sword at his belt, and in his hands he was holding a bow.

"Hunting, Majesty?" she greeted.

"Not anymore," he answered.

But he did not seem irritated at her presence, and he waited patiently while she gathered herbs. And then he put his bow away and they sat on a fallen tree, at a distance, but it was born out of respect and not dislike.

"Would you tell me something of the dwarven culture, Majesty?" Run asked, always interested in learning new things; that young girl in her, so curious of the world, had never grown up completely.

"Very well. I tell you something of Khuzdul, though there's not much to say. When Mahal created us, he gave us a language none but the dwarves speak," Thorin said. "Khuzdul is sacred to us, for Mahal himself designed that tongue and taught us every word."

"Ah, that is why you guard your language so?" Run asked, understanding dawning on her. So that was why he had been so upset at learning Dís had been teaching her.

"Yes." Thorin nodded solemnly. But then his face softened a little, and the look in his eyes became more friendly. "But I no longer regret Dís decided to teach you some of it." He paused. "I should have trusted you in this, Zâraminh, since my people trust you with their lives, and so does my sister. And so do I."

Run smiled slightly. "You know firsthand what a terrible student I am when it comes to Khuzdul." But quickly she became serious again, even though Thorin did not seem to mind her jests. "I am glad you trust me so, Majesty. That you trusted me enough to let Dís teach me."

"Khuzdul is a language meant for important things," Thorin said. "And for what you did for us, for what you are doing, I think it is proper repayment."

"I don't need..."

"You also don't need to lie, Zâraminh, if only out of politeness. Yes, you do not need payment, I remember. But I have eyes, and I can see you love knowledge."

"I do. It's my weakness."

"I can think of many worse ones." Thorin offered a brief smile. "Would you come over for a cup of cider? Dís would be glad to see you."

Run nodded, and they both got up and began climbing up the path slowly.

"She is busy now, isn't she?"

Dís' second son, Kíli, had been born a couple of months ago, and the princess barely had time for anything save her children.

Thorin smiled again. "You have no idea... Well, maybe you have," he reconsidered, and they both laughed a little at that.

. . .

There was dinner, and ale and cider, and a fire creaking merrily, and much lively talking and laughter. Then Dís put her sons to bed, leaving them in Náris' care for a while, and when she came back to the room Run was sipping her ale slowly, and Thorin and Balin were smoking their pipes.

There was a warm smile on Dís' tired face, and the atmosphere was peaceful, and there was a lightest of smiles on Run's lips as she watched, and her gaze briefly met Thorin's. She nodded at him friendly, and for a moment Thorin frowned, thinking something over.

Then he turned to Balin and smiled at his friend. "Shall we, Balin?"

Balin flourished a full courtly bow. "Your wish is my command, my king." He got Thorin's meaning instantly, whatever it was, stood up and left.

In a moment he came back, carrying a viol, almost as tall as himself, and in the other hand he was holding something wrapped in green cloth. He handed the wrapping to Thorin, then sat down and set to tuning his viol.

Thorin put his pipe aside, reached for the wrapping of green cloth and took out a harp. It was simple, polished wood, runes carved on one side, and yet in its simplicity there was much grace and elegance. He touched a few strings, and when he saw, or heard rather, that the harp was tuned, he began to play.

Run sat, staring, for the music was nothing she expected, not to mention she had not expected Thorin to have chosen harp, of all instruments. And yet when he struck it and the music began to flow, it became clear the harp was made for him, and he for his harp. The tune was sweet and full of yearning, and without words, using only his fingers and the harp's strings, Thorin told a tale of home lost and missed. Then the music changed, becoming full of sorrow, as the harp sang of a realm lost, of empty halls and ashes. And then the music changed again, and became sweet once more, tinted with sadness, but sweet still, and this was a tale of new home found. And all the time Run sat, staring, because his music moved something within her she thought long dormant, and she recalled her home in Mirkwood, and her parents, and all she lost, and all the happy memories she still carried, and it felt as if Thorin was playing the melody not on the strings of his harp, but on those of her heart.

Dís saw her reaction and gently touched her shoulder, to draw Run out of her reverie. "His harp loves him, doesn't it?" Dís asked, smiling, but Run did not quite hear her.

She was well aware staring was impolite, and yet she could not bring herself not to stare, for this Thorin playing the harp was so completely different from his other faces she knew that to believe it she had to see. His face was peaceful, emotions flickering across it and trickling into the music, and his fingers moved across the strings with a gentleness she had never thought him capable of. For most of the time, he kept his eyes either down on the harp, or simply closed, but once, in the middle of another melody, he glanced up and caught her watching. Run smiled at him apologetically, but Thorin only smiled at her in reply, the expression softer than usually, like his features, smoothed out by music.

Sometime later Balin left, and later still Dís slipped away for a while, saying she had to check on her boys, but would be back in a moment. Run used the little break and got up, and walked over to where Thorin was sitting, curious about his harp and overall bewildered that he should play so well.

"May I?" she asked, indicating the harp, and after Thorin nodded, she gently ran her fingers along the carved runes. "What does it mean?"

"The runes say 'give and be given'. Which means that if you put your heart into the music, in return you get to play music with a soul." Thorin smiled at the look on her face, for his words surprised her yet again, as she would never have guessed he would be the one to talk of music that way.

"It may be," she said, thinking that this evening she had learned quite a lot of Thorin's heart. Then, slowly, a little smile showed upon her lips. "But if it is, then you laid out your heart before us quite willingly, Majesty."

Thorin, probably still under the influence of his music, took no offence. "I've heard it's part of the healer's trade to keep secrets. Besides, don't we all have something which gives us away? Dancing, perhaps?" he suggested, looking her square in the eye.

"Perhaps," she agreed.

"Caring for a woman who is to become a mother," continued Thorin.

"Teaching one's nephew to fight," she retorted.

"Teaching a girl the healer's trade," he ventured.

His gaze was different somehow, searching. For what? Run did not know. Neither did she not what she was looking for in his eyes. They both suddenly acknowledged that where there had been resentment, and then unwilling respect, and then simply respect and even a touch of kindness, over the years, somehow, friendship had grown. And Run thought that maybe she found this strange king's newly revealed heart a tad too much to her liking. And in his eyes she read that whatever he had seen in her face when he had caught her staring earlier, it was the reason he was facing similar doubts concerning her.

"Standing beside the dancers and tapping one's foot," she said, to lighten the mood.

"Trying to learn how to pronounce Khuzdul words, with determination worthy of a more noble cause."

"Making hair clasps to thank for the healer's care where no thanks were needed," she said, softer now. "And giving one's own mithril clasp to a stranger who had not accepted money and had asked for no reward."

Thorin scowled a little at the memory. "And a pretty nice reward you got," he muttered, and she laughed. "Was the clasp at least of some use to you?"

"I didn't sell it, if that's what you asked. I didn't need money that much, and neither did I need that much money."

"That's just a hair clasp, not a mail shirt. You wouldn't get that much for it."

"It bears the markings of the clan of Durin, so who knows." Run smiled. Their hands on the harp were almost touching, and she took a quick glance down and withdrew her hand a little to make certain it would not be so.

"But you still have it?"

"Sewn under my kerchief. No one knows."

Thorin looked up at the green kerchief tied around her head like a band. "This kerchief?"

"Yes. Oh, but without any meaning. The only symbol I wear around is my own."

He pointed to the stylised flower, stitched on the green material. "What exactly is it? It never crossed my mind to ask."

"Yavanna's flower. A symbol of healing." She paused. "All right, it's a symbol of healing for me because I made it so."

"No offence meant, but doesn't look much like a flower to me. Maybe carved in wood, or cast in iron. Cast in iron by, how do you call him, Aulë?"

She nodded. "Mahal, in your tongue, yes." Then she shrugged. "I never really thought of it all that much. But I like that explanation, I think. Sounds much better than a simple 'I can't do embroidery'. Well, I can, but not well." She laughed out softly.

"You laugh a lot," he remarked.

"I like it," she explained.

And then, to Run's slight surprise, Thorin smiled at her. "I don't dislike it either."


	21. Chapter 21

**- 21 -**

"**T**hat bit was made up, wasn't it?" asked Tilly, frowning. "About harp-playing?"

Everyone around the fire laughed again, as she was the only one to interrupt the story with her questions, not wishing to accept even a tale without proof.

Acwyn smiled at the girl indulgently. "Any why would you say that, dear?"

"I've seen king Thorin once or twice..." Tilly broke off, searching for words or a way to explain what she meant. "It just doesn't suit him."

"The gal's right," said the moustached man, putting a woollen shawl around his daughter shoulder's against the evening cold. "He looks a warrior, not a harp-player."

"Are the two necessarily mutually exclusive?" asked a male voice. Its owner was further from the fire, his face invisible in the shadow, but Acwyn saw he was noticeably shorter than the other men present, and saw the hood hiding his face, and recognised he was one of Durin's folk.

"That's true, then?" Tilly asked, surprised.

"Aye, lassie, that's true. Improbable doesn't always mean impossible."

"Alright, alright." Tilly raised her slender hands in a gesture of surrender. "So, what happened next?"

"Well, I was about to say that, before you chimed in." Acwyn laughed. "But before I do that, I must tell you I've never had a listener as curious and inquisitive as you, young lady."

Her words were followed by a bout of laughter, some hands-clapping and merry shouts, demanding she continued her tale.

"And that is right what I'm going to do," Acwyn said. "So we have already established king Thorin can play harp, or at least could and did so that long time ago when our story takes place."

"Despite how peaceful life in Ered Luin had become for the dwarves, their king still had many duties. But each evening he would leave his kingship at the entrance to his family's halls, shrugging it off his shoulders along with his pelted coat, and became a man. He would eat supper with his sister and her husband, and sometimes also their good friends Balin and Dwalin, and then drink a cup of beer or mead or smoke his pipe. Then he would play with his older nephew, teaching him how to fight, telling him stories and legends, and playing his harp and singing the songs of old. He would sing the song of Durin and his awakening, and how the First Father had walked among unnamed hills and drunk from untasted wells, and how he had seen the crown of stars above the head of his reflection in the depths of Mirrormere. He would sing of Khazad-dûm, of its high halls and of its splendour when the days when the world had been young and fair, and of the demise of the first and foremost dwarven kingdom of old. He would sing of Erebor, of its prosperity and beauty, and of the fire dormant inside the Arkenstone, and of home lost.

"And sometimes, when Dís would take out her ocarina and whistle a merrier tune that bore memories of birdsong on spring meadows within, Thorin would play a more gentle and serene and much less sombre song, a song of a new life being carved slowly and laboriously in an unknown land. And sometimes, however rarely, he would take his harp and, even without the accompaniment of Dís' ocarina, he would play melodies that sang of the silver ribbon of the river Lhûn winding among the green of forests and meadows like a vein of mithril in the stone, and of the gleam of white snow upon the peaks of Ered Luin like the finest gems, and the music he played was like a soft spring morning over the Blue Mountains, like gentle summer rain and like light of the first stars in the sky at dusk. And each time he played such music, his face serene and peaceful as it was only rarely, the melodies he played captured Run's heart a little more, string by string; not the ballads of old, thought she loved hearing them too, but the less solemn, more serene melodies of life.

"When exactly the king noticed that, it is hard to tell, but it might have been he began playing those melodies more often after that, or might have simply been that the time he devoted to his family finally allowed his heart to heal and he relearned joy, and played merrier melodies more often because of that. What did he see in her is even more difficult to guess, and she never quite learned it either. It might have been that she had no desire whatsoever for gold or wealth, and she treasured neither silver nor gems, but laughter and little everyday joys, something that to him came with difficulty. Or it might have been his loneliness answered to hers. Or it might have been that the music he played put a spell on him too, and the harpstrings bound together two hearts that had never been destined to meet."


	22. Chapter 22

**- 22 -**

**T**hat was, Run mused, another of those quiet evenings when everything seemed to be as it should, and everything in its place. It certainly had to be a moment of rest for Dís, who had put Kíli to sleep and left him in Náris' care. But she took Fíli with her, and the princess was talking quietly with Run, while Thorin was playing with Fíli, and it consisted of much rolling on the bearskin on the floor.

"Look, amad, caught a big bad orc!" shouted Fíli, his cheeks pink from laughter and excitement.

Dís smiled merrily at her son, her hands gently resting in her lap. "With that much fur? More like a warg," she said in jest, and Thorin scowled from under the tangled mess that his hair was at the moment.

"What's a warg, uncle?"

"Something like a wolf," explained Thorin, forcing himself to sound light-hearted.

"Even better!" Fíli beamed.

"Caught a warg, mhm?" Thorin attempted a wolfish smile in return, then grabbed his nephew with one arm and pulled him back down onto the bearskin. Some considerable amount of tickling, rolling on the floor and Fíli's delighted childish giggling later, Thorin was flat on his back on the bearskin, with an immensely proud Fíli sitting over his chest, the boy's wooden toy sword at his throat.

"Yup," Fíli confirmed happily. "Caught 'im for good. What we do with a warg, amad?"

"Tie him up?" suggested Dís innocently, stifling laughter. "I think I can spare some ribbon for such a noble cause."

Thorin groaned quietly. "You do love humiliating me, sister."

"There's no humiliation in bringing joy to a child," said Run quietly, which earned her Thorin's puzzled look and Dís' warm smile.

"Well said," praised Dís.

Fíli frowned his tiny forehead, trying to figure out a way to go find some rope and not let the defeated warg escape. "Stay put, big bad warg," he ordered finally, scrambling off Thorin. He run up to Run, caught her hand and, not caring for her protests and encouraged by his mother's snorts of laughter, finally made her get up from the bench and led her towards the bearskin, then pulled her down until she was sitting. "Hold 'im, auntie." With that, he grasped her hand and closed it firmly around his uncle's wrist, pushing the wooden sword into her other hand and pointing it at Thorin's throat. "Amad?" he asked, turning to Dís.

Dís smiled. "Let's find some ribbon, my brave little warrior."

"Don't let 'im go!" shouted Fíli, then, followed by Dís, happily trotted into his parents' bedroom to look for a piece of string or a ribbon.

Run glanced down, prepared for some unpleasant remark because Thorin did not take blows to his pride well, and this was quite a mighty blow, but she found his eyes closed, and his face clouded a little when he let all the held-back memories flood him.

"I am sorry," she said, very quietly, recalling the tales of a battle that had taken place somewhere in the Misty Mountains near the realm of Moria, recalling when Dís mentioned Azanulbizar and their brother's death, and all the tales of the battle she had heard earlier.

Thorin opened his eyes and looked up at her, and Run looked into his eyes, and what she found there puzzled her. His gaze was baffled, as if he could not quite grasp what she meant, but there was no irritation or anger, and that surprised her the most that something was able to push away his pride.

"About what?" he asked quietly, his voice hoarse.

Her grip on the wooden sword slackened, and the toy fell across his chest. Her hold on his wrist lightened, too, and all of a sudden she realised she was leaning over him, and both kept utterly still, because what had been child's play a moment ago now turned into something different.

"The battle at the realm of Moria?" she said hesitantly, and by the change in his eyes she saw her guess was right.

"How do you..." he breathed.

"There are tales told about it, Majesty," she interrupted softly, not wishing to give away that Dís had told her that. "I simply counted the years," she added, and it dawned on her that the battle had taken place long before she had been born, and for the first time she truly realised the rift between their races.

Before Thorin could answer, Fíli burst in.

"Auntie, you let 'im go!" he accused, laughing.

"No guard material at all, no?" asked Dís.

"I'm afraid so," said Run apologetically.

Fíli took his sword. "Now we 'ave to fight 'im again!"

"All right, so keep fighting if you must, but I have to go to sleep," Dís said. "Your sweet little brother kept me up for half the night, and then I had to get up to say goodbye to your father." She glanced at Fíli, then at her brother. "Thorin, please see him to bed soon, will you?" she asked, and when Thorin nodded, she retreated back to the bedroom.

Run thought of the look on Thorin's face when for a moment he had not had to pretend this was nothing but play for him, and then recalled how Radagast showed her once how to tame animals, and thought of a new entertainment for the little prince. "You know, little one," she said, letting go of Thorin's wrist and moving away to put her arm lightly around Fíli's shoulders. "If he was no warg, but a wolf, we wouldn't necessarily have to fight. We could try to tame the wolf, mhm?"

"Where's the fun?" asked Fíli, somehow disappointed, but too well behaved to straightforwardly say he did not like the idea, especially not when the said warg was getting up from the floor.

"And if I add a story to it?" she asked, encouraging.

Fíli frowned, pouted, then finally nodded. "All right."

"Not so long ago," Run began, curling her legs underneath her and sitting more comfortably. "In a faraway forest, called Mirkwood, there lived a healer. But, ah, no ordinary healer he was! His name was Radagast, and he was a wizard." She made up that part, because for what she knew Radagast was but a humble healer, but the way he leaned over those in need and forest animals always made an impression some magic was indeed at work. Besides, there was no harm in colouring it up a bit, for Fíli's sake.

Fíli, meanwhile, settled next to her, looking up at her with his mouth open since he heard the word 'wizard', and Thorin settled comfortably nearby, leaning on his hand, one leg bent at the knee and the other outstretched.

"He could heal almost all the illnesses of the body, and most of those of mind, and even sometimes those of heart," she continued. "But healing was not his only gift. He loved all the forest life and dwellers, from a single blade of grass and a smallest mouse up to wolves and bears. And I saw him once, when he walked out onto a clearing, and a lone wolf was there, one who must have lost his pack. I was only a young girl, and would have fled if I wasn't scared out of my wits. But Radagast just told me quietly not to move, and slowly stepped closer to the wolf, and finally knelt down, to be eye level with it, quite like this." Run got up to a half-sit, half-kneel.

"'m not scared of this wolf," declared Fíli, at which Thorin got up to a crouch and snapped at his nephew, and Fíli made a great spectacle of hiding behind Run and peeking out. "Right, maybe a wee bit."

Run smiled at him. "Radagast just sat like this for a while, allowing both him and the wolf to get used to each other's presence. He just kept looking into the wolf's eyes, not challenging, but not meekly either, just an open stare, assessing, allowing the wolf to do the same." Following the words of her story, Run raised her eyes from Fíli to Thorin, and their gazes locked. In the shadows his hair was casting on his face, Thorin's eyes looked like two burning coals in the gloom. "Then, Radagast began to move, inch by inch, slowly but fluently, making it not a set of a few moves but just one fluid motion, which would not alarm the wolf." Ever so slowly, she moved, and Fíli watched entranced at the story being enacted before his eyes. But Run, seeing her reflection in Thorin's eyes closer and closer, again had an uncanny feeling that a tale of an entirely different sort was being played out before her eyes, with her and him both part of it. "A few times, it seemed the wolf was about to run or attack him, but it remained, frozen to the spot, as if enchanted by the motion," she continued, more quietly now. Thorin watched her, part baffled, part curious, waiting to see what was she doing and what was going to happen, and she found herself anxious to find out, and it seemed the story and the slow fluidity of the motion caught them both. "After some time, Radagast stopped, kneeling, facing the wolf, and even more slowly he reached out his hand towards the wolf's head." Run raised her arm, and all three of them watched intently as her hand bridged yet another inch. "Then, finally, Radagast gently touched the wolf's head," she whispered. "And the wolf did neither flee nor attack, and they looked at each other with understanding, and friendship was weaved that day," she finished quietly. Then she moved her hand across that last inch and gently touched a strand of Thorin's hair, and from that close Thorin's eyes were no coals but two lakes, deep and unreadable, with something gleaming right under the surface.

Run let her hand drop and hastily moved away. "Come on, try it yourself," she smiled at Fíli, and gently pushed him forward.

"Not a scary wolf at all," said Fíli, leaping forward and looping his arms around his uncle's neck, and when Thorin hugged him, Fíli ruffled his hair vigorously.

"Fíli!" Thorin pulled his nephew away and sighed in exasperation.

"Sorry, uncle," Fíli grinned, not looking sorry at all. "You know? You're a good wolf. Real scary."

Thorin gave up and laughed, low and long and heartily, gathering his nephew to him and ruffling the boy's hair affectionately, and Run smiled at the sight and at the sound of his laughter, which was all new to her. And all to infrequent to him, she thought.

"All right, brave wolf hunter, time for bed," commanded Thorin, in a voice which was warm and not stern, but Fíli obeyed immediately. "Now say goodnight." Thorin scooped Fíli up and stood, and Run raised too.

"'night, auntie." The boy tugged at her kerchief, before Thorin batted his hand away. "Say 'night, uncle."

Run laughed and Thorin did not quite manage to suppress a smile.

"Goodnight, Zâraminh."

"Goodnight, Majesty."

And as Thorin walked out of the room with his nephew still in his arms, Run glanced after him, and the merry smile on her face turned softer, thoughtful. For she saw a new facet to this king of stone, one she would not have anticipated in him altogether. But there it was, warmth and tenderness and care, visible even more plainly than his love for Dís, and that, like his music, moved something deep within Run's heart. And she thought of the moment her fingertips had touched his hair that evening, and her eyes had met his, and could feel her lips were still forming a smile, and that instant she knew, though she did not name the feeling, and it scared her, and the smile died on her lips.


	23. Chapter 23

**_Sofasoap_**_: __We'll find out who the hooded figure is, eventually... Not that many candidates, after all._

**_pronker_**_: __It's hard not to smile at uncle-Thorin, isn't it?_

**_dearreader_**: _Run is scared not because she finds Thorin scary; she's not afraid of him (at least not anymore), she fears for herself because she doesn't know what to do with her feelings - Thorin is not only of another race, but also a king. By the way,she's not exactly a girl; she feels young at heart, and acts accordingly, but she's about 40, which makes her roughly the same age as Thorin is in dwarven years. And she'll never say it aloud, even to herself, but she's also afraid that if she falls for Thorin she'll never have a family of her own, which she'd love to have. Also, while she loves stories, she wouldn't want her life to become one._

* * *

**- 23 -**

**T**he dawn was chilly, a promise of spring warmth almost already in the air, but not quite there yet. Run slowly climbed the mountain path, watching the first specks of fresh green of leaves, stepping around wherever she chanced upon a patch of young grass or budding flowers. The sky was clouded, the memory of the night rain still hanging in the air. She glanced up at the clouds, visible through the branches, and allowed herself a moment of amazement and wonder at the breathtaking beauty of nature.

She loved the quiet peace of last calm corners of Mirkwood from where she hailed, she loved the silver mirror surface of the Long Lake, she loved the down-to-earth and merry air of Bree, but Ered Luin she loved the most. The mountains, the meadows, the shimmering ribbon of river Lhûn, the abundance and wealth of nature and the vast spaces.

Run let the feeling fill her whole, squirreling it away in every corner of her being, knowing that she would need it later, should she be able to do what she came here for. She climbed the last few rocks and walked out onto what was a small meadow on one side, and a stone ledge overlooking the valley and the forest on the other.

Thorin was there, as she had guessed he would be, sitting on the fallen log, already wearing his pelt, but his hair still in slight disarray, and his eyes looking ahead, trying to see across the mountains and planes and years. He had gone through the period of mourning longs months after his father's disappearance, as it seemed there was nothing else to be done, and had accepted the title of the King in Exile even if it sounded bitter to him, but once a year he would get up from his bed early after a sleepless night, stare are the horizon and wonder what could have happened, and pondered all the what ifs.

It took Run some time to perceive it, but now she understood the uncertainty had never truly disappeared. And though he was able to push it down into a corner of his mind where it would lay forgotten most of the time, once a year, on the day his father had left, Thorin would remember.

She approached him quietly, unassuming, and sat beside him on the log, keeping proper distance. The tail of his pelt was thrown across the log, and the fur tickled her hand. Even though Thorin did not move, she knew he was aware of her presence, and she also knew his lack of reaction was no rejection or refusal, but acceptance. He said nothing, but neither did he tell her to leave, and he did not look at her with eyes and brow clouded by helpless anger directed at his father, at fate and maybe most of all at himself.

She sat beside him, still, yet not like stone but softer, more like water in a lake. If only there was less pride in you, my king, she thought, watching his shoulders straight as ever, his stark profile, the way he kept his head up. If only you would allow yourself what you deem weakness, she thought. Then, knowing he would never reach out even if he wished it, knowing the stone will do here no good and nor will fire, and only life might, she gently put her palm over his. She felt his hand twitch slightly, but as she was ready to withdraw hers, his hand stilled, and then relaxed slowly under her touch. Thorin was still looking far ahead, but suddenly he took a breath, just like any others, but when he exhaled with this breath something left him, and his shoulders slumped slightly, and his head bowed lower, and when his eyes closed Run closed her fingers around his palm. Moments passed, but then finally Thorin's fingers closed over hers as he held on, and she smiled sadly but with tenderness, even though he did not see that smile – or maybe because he did not see it.

They sat like that for some time, without a word, and Run discovered all over again how silence came easier to them, and how there could be no misunderstanding in it, because when Thorin finally looked at her and she let him read her face, he knew she came to comfort him, and when her gaze met his she knew he was grateful for her presence. And she knew what she had seen there in his eyes that evening, and what had been in hers, for it was now in the touch of their hands.

Thorin let go of her hand first and got up, and she followed suit and stood up also.

"Come have breakfast with us," he said.

Run looked at him questioningly, and found that even though he was not smiling, there was some measure of peace to his eyes and features.

"If you wish me to, Majesty," she said.

"I do," he replied simply.

She nodded, and Thorin gestured towards the entrance to the mountain halls, and in they walked. As she stepped inside, half a pace ahead of him because he let her go first, and turned a little to look back at him, she saw his eyes were following her.

. . .

**I**nside the dwarven halls it was warm, and lively, especially in the royal chambers. Dís was sitting at the dining table, feeding Kíli, and encouraging Fíli to eat. At seeing Run and Thorin, she got up, handing Kíli to Náris.

"Durin's beard, where have you been?" she exclaimed to Thorin. "You're going to be late!" she scoffed.

"Still have some time left, sister," he replied calmly.

Dís huffed. "Tell that to Círdan's messenger who's already waiting."

"By Mahal! It's not my fault elves can't use clocks." Thorin's eyes flared briefly. "And I'm ready..."

"With this haystack on your head?" Dís interrupted, shaking her vigorously. "Forget it, brother." She took Thorin's arm, ushered him into the room, sat him on the bench and put a mirror on the table. "Now be still," she commanded.

Run had to stifle laughter at seeing the usually so proud dwarven king being ordered around by his sister, and making no protest whatsoever. Apparently, if there was someone Thorin was maybe a little afraid of, or at least whom he did not want to anger, it was his younger sister.

"Time, there's no time," Dís muttered, her fingers dancing at a surprising speed and plaiting Thorin's hair. "Durin's beard, Fíli, please just eat!" she glanced at the younger prince, who was bored with his food and tried to take away his brother's rattle, but stopped when Dís looked at him. "Now, that's a good boy." And suddenly she turned to Run. "I need help."

Run blinked, not quite certain she got that right.

"Don't be absurd, there's nothing indecent in hair plaiting, not in this kind, anyway." Holding a strand of Thorin's hair with one hand, she waved at Run with the other. "Come on."

Dís parted the strand into three with lightning speed and handed it over to Run. "Basic plait. You'll manage. Durin's beard, Fíli, stop taking away your brother's toy! Come, we'll take you to father." She grabbed Fíli's small hand, nodded at Náris to take Kíli and follow, and with a "Be right back!" she busted out of the room.

Run was thinking of something to say, but found nothing. She was a family friend, yes, but also a healer to them, first and foremost and always, this was evident in the way Dís had no objections against leaving her alone with Thorin, because she was a trusted friend, yes, but also because she was a healer. And a healer, even if not entitled to, was allowed to know and take part is what was considered private. This healer, however...

"You're supposed to be plaiting," remarked Thorin, amused.

"Oh. Yes. I'm sorry." She forced her hands to work, focusing on the strand and not on the fact that she should not be doing this, because aside from being a healer she was also a woman, and something had been weaving between Thorin and her, and she should not.

"You're very pensive today," he said. His hands were at his beard, braiding with indefinitely more practice than hers.

"I'm thinking of that last story."

"Of Radagast and the wolf?" A corner of Thorin's lips flicked up briefly. "I don't give compliments often, but you have quite the gift of storytelling, Zâraminh."

"Only as good as my listeners," she replied kindly, as she would to anyone, clasping the braid with an intricately ornamented silver bead.

"So, what were you thinking of?" asked Thorin when she was combing her fingers through his hair, trying to pick another strand.

"I wonder," she said, absent-mindedly. "I wonder if it wasn't that the wolf tamed Radagast, too."

"I am no expert on wildlife, but I'd think it works both ways."

She caught his stare in the mirror, and right this moment she knew, and he knew, too, reading it in her eyes. There was something growing where there should be nothing, and they both knew the customs, and cared for the fragile balance carved there, so there would continue to be nothing. Still, they knew, and there was some comfort in the thought.


	24. Chapter 24

_**pronker**: But she'd still like to have a family while she still can._

_**DownliftedAndUnderwhelmed**: I hope next chapters will live up to the expectations :)_

_**dearreader**: Cannot tell, cannot tell... But I'm very glad you decided to read the story!_

* * *

_And it might be a good time to share some music inspirations. Ladies and gentlemen, the songs of Ered Luin (all to be found on youtube):  
_

_- Rockimmer Celtic And Electric Harp, esp. "Inis Mona", "River Flows in You" and Pachelbel's Canon,_

___- "River Flows in You", Amélie Guiboux's cover_,

_- STL Ocarina's "Misty Mountains Cold" and "Safe & Sound",_

_- The Tolkien Ensemble's "Song of Durin",_

_- The Lonely Mountain Band's "Durin's Awakening Song",_

_and of course many"Misty Mountains Cold" variations on harp. If you'd like the music series to continue, please let me know :)_

* * *

**- 24 -**

**T**hey were sitting by the fire, waiting for Dís. The little princes kept their mother very busy, and often when Run came to the underground halls of Thorintûmhu, she had to wait for her friend, and was left alone with the king. They did not talk much, but strangely they found understanding in silence; Thorin smoked his pipe and she watched the flames, and sometimes they would glance up at each other, and sometimes one of them would begin to talk, or would smile briefly.

"Why do you keep calling me 'Majesty'?" This evening Thorin was the first to break the silence.

Run shrugged. "Why do you never call me by my name?" She answered with a question of her own. In truth, she had no idea why she kept calling him so; calling him by his name would be too forward, for he was a king, but he was not her king, hence she did not use his full title.

"You know that dwarves do not use their true names in everyday matters," he said.

"Of course. But I am not a dwarf, so what that has to do with..."

"It's a sign of respect, Zâraminh," he explained. "I didn't know you find it offensive."

"What? Oh, no, of course not!" She smiled at him, reassuring. She wanted to say he could use her name anyway, for it was not her true name, but she did no such thing, because it dawned on her that was more her name than any other. She was Run, and not even of Mirkwood but of Ered Luin, that was her home, that was where she belonged.

"I..." she stammered, not really knowing what to say." I've never looked at it from that angle." She smiled again, a little shyly, which was something quite new to her. "That's... That's very considerate of you, Majesty."

To her surprise, Thorin laughed quietly. "I think it's the first time ever you are at a loss of words."

Run's brow furrowed, which only gave him another cause for laughter.

"I'm glad I can impress you as much as to make you speechless," he said, in one of his rare attempts at jesting.

Run shook her head and laughed at him heartily. "So very modest."

"Always," Thorin replied immediately, making her laugh even more, and as he watched her reaction, he smiled. "I made you laugh," he added quietly after a while, and that made Run sober immediately.

When she looked at Thorin, the smile was still there, but she could not quite read what was in his eyes. He had the strangest eyes, she thought; sometimes there was fire in his eyes, and what he felt was laid out plainly for all to see, and sometimes his eyes were two lakes, and even though there was something in the deep, it was obscured by the reflection of the world on the surface.

He held her gaze, saying nothing, and surprisingly Run was the first to look away. But before either found words to speak again, there were footsteps in the hall, and Dís rushed in, a wide smile on her face and her cheeks flushed from running, which did not befit a princess, but she did not care.

"Look what I've found!" she said without greeting, and held out a small, simple wooden ocarina.

"Durin's beard," Thorin said softly, amazed, then smiled. "I've never thought you'll find it again."

"So you too play a musical instrument?" asked Run in disbelief.

"Aye, I do. Well, more like used to play, but anyway, the answer is yes." Dís laughed. "We might not look it, but we dwarves are very musical," she added.

"It's not exactly an instrument to befit a princess," remarked Thorin, getting up from his seat.

"Shut up, dearest brother. After all a harp is hardly an instrument to befit a warrior."

Thorin shrugged. "I think it fits a king just fine." He was not smiling, but there was a softer look on his face and in his eyes. "Time for me to go." He bowed slightly.

"Come back to us later, brother," Dís called after him, and Thorin muttered something about trying to do so, and left.

"Kingship duties?" Run asked, guessing the answer.

"A messenger from Gondor," Dís explained. "They took to our swords so much they want more. For their guardians in Ithilien, or something like that." Dís shook her head. "Ah, let's not waste such a lovely evening on politics!"

"Wise words," said Run with a smile.

For some time they exchanged everyday news, and Dís boasted about the progress Fíli was making in Khuzdul, and Run laughed and said he already had to be better than she was, and Dís agreed. Then Run talked about Sage's proficiency with herbs, and how the girl's hands and heart seemed made for the art of healing, and Dís smiled.

And later into the evening Dís took up her ocarina and played, simple songs from her childhood, and attempted one or newer tunes from Ered Luin. And finally she played one of the melodies Thorin often played on his harp, the one he played most often. But while Thorin's interpretation was full of yearning and streaked with sorrow, Dís', while still melancholic, was more serene.

"It's one of the songs of Erebor," Dís explained when Run asked her. "I was just a child, barely ten years old; even less according to human measure of time. I don't remember much. Ered Luin is my home. But, you see... Thorin is older than me, and he remembers all too well. He was there, too young to carry a weapon, and for that he carries guilt with him ever since."

There was no more music that night. They sat in silence, and watched the flames dancing in the fireplace, and Dís probably thought of dragonfire. But Run thought of the grim dwarven king, and she felt for him, for she understood grief. And she thought that despite all, he did not quite lost the ability to smile, and had relearned laughter, and unconsciously she smiled at the mere thought of him.

Some indefinite amount of time later, Náris came, carrying Kíli, with Fíli trotting beside her. Dís gently took Kíli and nodded to the dwarven midwife that she could leave, while Fíli ran over to Run and was already halfway through telling her about his first axe-fighting lessons with Dwalin – with a wooden axe, surely, but that was his first axe, and the little prince was very excited about it. And Run, being a good aunt, listened to his merry chatter patiently and praised Fíli's skills.

"Fíli, time for bed," Dís called quietly, not wishing to wake her younger son, still sleeping peacefully in the warm cradle of her arms.

"But amad..." Fíli tried to protest, but one look from his mother cut all protests short.

"Adad returns tomorrow," said Dís, trying to convince her son. "We have to be well rested to sit all evening listening to his tales, aren't we?" she asked, and Fíli beamed, delighted at the prospect.

Dís turned to Run. "Will you please hold Kíli for a moment?"

"Yes." Run smiled gently. "Thank you," she added after a while.

"Thank me? For what?" Dís asked, perplexed.

"For trusting me with one of your two greatest treasures."

Dís smiled in response, and carefully put sleeping Kíli into Run's arms. "He shouldn't wake, he sleeps like stone. I'll be back shortly." Dís got up, took her older son's little hand in hers and together they walked out of the room, Dís muttering quietly something about her brother not being there when needed.

Run held the sleeping dwarven child with utmost care, as she would a fragile and precious herb or gem, and she looked at Kíli's peaceful face and could not hold back a soft, tender smile. Not even for a moment did she forget Kíli was not her child, but it was difficult to remain indifferent, and she did not even try to, and had already let herself grow attached to this tiny soul.

There was a quiet sound of footsteps coming to a halt at the door as someone stopped on the threshold. Run did not look up, certain it was Dís returning. But there was a stillness, and Run knew it was not Dís, and when she looked up, opening her mouth to say something, she saw Thorin staring at her, bewilderment and wonder written over his face. And when his eyes met hers, she saw fire there, and she pictured the image he saw upon entering the room, and this very moment she understood his feelings ran much deeper than she had thought.

And she kept utterly still, suddenly afraid to break the spell, her gaze holding his, and finally she offered a smallest, most tentative smile. Thorin answered with a similar smile of his own, and his whole face softened, and he did not look away but let her read everything that was in his eyes. And Run felt that similar feelings resounded in her own heart, and for the first time she allowed herself to acknowledge she loved the dwarven king.

"I only came to say goodnight," he said, quietly as not to wake his nephew. Still, he did not move, watching her, eyes gleaming like burning coals in the dim light.

"I don't know about good yet," Run said, her voice barely louder than breath. She was the first to look away, lowering her head to look at the dwarfling sleeping in her arms. "But certainly a strange night it is."

"Perhaps." His voice sounded closer, as he silently entered the room. He walked over to where she sat, to take his nephew from her and to Dís.

"You have been missed here, Majesty," Run said quietly, not looking at him.

"Then a strange night it is indeed," Thorin replied, a hint of amusement in his voice, as if he was mocking both her and himself with the words, because what had over the years become friendship had not begun easily, and he knew well he was usually not the most agreeable companion.

From the corner of her eye Run saw him kneel beside her. He reached out to take Kíli from her, but then, before their hands met, he withdrew, leaving his nephew in her arms.

"You're a difficult companion, Majesty," she said frankly, glancing up at him, not quite certain he would not take offense, and truth to be told he looked as if he was not certain about it himself. "But in the end, it seems to be worth the effort," she added.

"And you are an easy companion, Zâraminh. Which turns out to be surprisingly difficult," he admitted quite openly.

Run could not help it and smiled, soundlessly laughing at his confession, but in a friendly and somehow affectionate way, and his smile told her he gathered as much.

"A strange night," she whispered, looking into his eyes again.

"But a good night nonetheless, isn't it?" he asked, and from this close his eyes were not burning coals but two deep mountain meres.

"Yes," she agreed, and the smile hovering at his lips finally lit up his eyes. "A good night indeed."


	25. Chapter 25

_Thanks for the favs, follows, and last but not least for the reviews!_

* * *

**- 25 -**

"**I**t's getting boring," complained Tilly. "Like life here."

Many around the fire laughed, but Acwyn did not, and her face darkened briefly, yet not with anger, but rather with sorrow.

"Ah, dear child, bless your ignorance," she muttered, but so quietly that no one heard her over the merriment. "Maybe it is," Acwyn said aloud. "But life teaches that what you call boredom is happiness. Alas, we seldom know it before we lose it."

This time, no one laughed. Some nodded to her words, and the overall mood turned more gloomy, sombre.

"And so it was then in the dwarven kingdom," Acwyn said after a moment of silence. "Life was peaceful, and the trade was good, and gold began flowing into the dwarven halls once more. But that peace was soon shattered.

"Dís' husband, Farin, accompanied other traders to Gondor, to deliver the swords promised to the guardians of Ithilien. The journey was uneventful, and dull, and the transaction went well, and the dwarves were paid even more than promised. But on the way back, they saw a strange ship with black sails. It was a ship of the corsairs of Umbar, who usually fear Gondor and try not to get in the way. But those were adventurous men, and they saw the ship did not belong to Gondor, and they also saw how finely the ship was made, and thought it would prove good prey.

"The ship the dwarves were sailing on had been wrought by the elves of Grey Havens, and was quick, and so they did manage to sail away with their gold intact. But some of them were wounded by the corsairs' black arrows, and in the night one of the wounded died of blood loss; there was no healer among them, but even a healer would not be able to help him, save maybe a wizard. And so that night Farin, son of Burin, husband of Dís of the House of Durin, and father to Fíli and Kíli, departed this world, and his soul stood by the throne of Mandos, and his spirit then went to the halls of his fathers.

"And when the traders returned to Thorin's Halls, they brought gold, and a body. And grief fell over Durin's folk in Ered Luin, for Farin was well liked, and all mourned his passing, and pitied his wife and his little sons. Kíli was too young to even know what happened, but in his first words he constantly asked about his father, and each time that broke Dís' heart all anew. Fíli understood, and for a long time he did not laugh nor smile, and talked very little, though usually he never kept quiet. And there was mourning in the underground dwarven halls, and for some time laughter died in Thorintûmhu.

"Dís was heartbroken, and in the nights she wept bitterly, alone. But during the day, she kept calm, to ease the loss her sons suffered, and tried to convince them the world had not ended. And each evening, Dís broke the mourning traditions and sang her sons a lullaby before they went to sleep.

"And again she broke the customs, as she had Balin make a carving on her sons' bedroom wall. It was a statue of her husband, arms outstretched so that his hands were reaching both boys' beds, and the smile on his face was soft fire, not stone. And sometimes, when the boys woke from a dream plagued by nightmares, they would reach for the statue's stone hands. And when under their touch the stone warmed up and seemed almost like flesh, they would fall asleep again, feeling the presence and protection of their father.

"But Dís woke from her nightmares to an empty and cold bed, and she would touch her wedding ring bearing the markings of her husband's clan. And until morning she would not fall asleep again, but often would leave her room and go look at her sons sleeping peacefully, holding the statue's stone hands. And in the gloom and dim candlelight it would seem to her that her husband truly came back, and even though later in the morning it would double the pain and magnify the emptiness, for a while she would feel whole again.

"King Thorin kept his sister and nephews company, but in the evening he would retire to his rooms, and even the fire could not warm him then. He wished to comfort his sister, but did not know how to do so, and that he took care of the boys only seemed to cause Dís more pain. Thorin could understand that, did understand quite well that his presence only pronounced her husband's absence, but he could not do a thing about it. The boys needed someone who would act like a father to them, and Dís understood that, but still watching Thorin with her sons only caused her pain, and Thorin saw that, and it aggravated him to no end.

"Dís was a mother, a wife, a grown woman, but to him somehow she still was his little sister, and he wished to protect her from sorrow and grief, only he could not. And he could bear much, could fight and strive, but there was no battle he could fight this time, and he could do nothing but watch, and most of all he hated being helpless.

"And Run, who listened both to him and Dís, and watched them, felt for them both. But while Dís would cry and talk, and seek comfort in her sons and friends, Thorin said and showed nothing, and only his clouded face hinted he too was troubled. And Run, seeing he would not talk and knowing he would answer no questions, would go up to the mountain meadow and stand or sit with him, and patiently wait. And it was her silence that finally drew some answers from him.

"For Dís was his little sister, and he would not burden her with his own troubles, especially not now, and to Balin he would say nothing, considering it a weakness. But Run was a healer, and part of the healer's trade was keeping secrets, and she had earned his trust, and the strings of his harp had bound them together closer that he would admit even to himself. And so, in the end, it was Run he told of what had been troubling him, quietly hoping she might be able to find a cure to soothe his pain."


	26. Chapter 26

_**pronker**: I like to think life in Ered Luin was happy for most of the dwarves for most of the tim_e.

_**dearreader**: Glad you like my story; I hope reading it is as much fun as writing it :)_

_**guest**: Something *is* happening. Everyday life isn't an action film._

* * *

**- 26 -**

**A** few weeks have passed since the mourning period had ended, and life seemed to be slowly returning to normal in the dwarven halls. Run was a less frequent visitor there of late, for Dís still needed to be alone with her grief sometimes, and Thorin devoted most of his free time to his nephews. But on her visits, Run began noticing that something was off. It took her a long time to pinpoint it, but finally she saw it clearly: whenever Thorin came over to Dís' rooms to play with her sons or teach them, the princess excused herself with one task or another, and left, as if for some reason she did not want to be in the same room with her brother. And when Thorin glanced after his sister, Run watched him, and deep in his eyes she saw anguish.

But later, when Run tried to ask Thorin if anything was wrong, he said that everything was as fine as could be under the circumstances. And when he said that, in his eyes Run saw that he did not tell her the whole truth. Still, mindful he would tell her nothing if he did not want to, she let the topic drop, and waited.

A week passed, and then another, and one more, and halfway through the fourth week Run decided she was tired of waiting. It pained her to watch Dís like that, and her heart constricted each time she recalled Thorin's look she had seen earlier. So one afternoon, knowing it was a kingship day and knowing Thorin would probably seek peace and quiet, and rest, she went up into the mountains, and came to the meadow where he so often sought refuge.

Thorin was there, his hair and beard framed in silver clasps, and there was a heavy, fur-lined cloak on his shoulders. But his face was grim, and he did not try to hide that.

"Looking for your herbs again?" he asked upon noticing her.

Run shook her head. "Looking for you."

"Well, you found me." He turned away from her, as if to watch the valley.

She climbed the last inches up the rocks and then walked up to stand beside him. She said nothing; years of their acquaintance taught her that no question will get an answer out of Thorin Oakenshield if he did not wish it, and the only things to do the trick were silence and patience. Moments passed, with only the wind whistling further over the mountains, the quiet murmur of the nearby stream, and an occasional screech of one bird or another.

"Dís still cannot stand it when I'm with the boys," he said finally. "Every time she looks at me when I'm with them, she thinks of Farin. I wish he were alive," said Thorin bitterly. "But that cannot be," she said softly. "And the boys need..."

"They need a father!" Thorin heaved a breath, and the helpless anger was gone, leaving only exhaustion. "And I'm not their father." His voice sounded hollow. "I can bring them up, it's my duty now. But how can we be a family if Dís can't even..."

"She understands," Run interrupted softly. She recalled a conversation she had once had with Dís about Thorin, and thought the two of them were more alike than they would sometimes care to admit. It was that memory that helped her find the right words. "And she'll come to see that she understands, and then she'll be able to show it to you."

Silence fell upon them again, but Run knew he did not need advice, only someone who, after a suitable amount of time, would listen to him. She waited for some more, but then, seeing the conversation was over for now, she briefly put a hand on his shoulder and then quietly walked away, leaving Thorin to his thoughts and submerging into her own.

He and Dís had always been each other's support, whether after their father's disappearance, as she witnessed, or after their brother's death, as Dís had told her. But this time it was a loss they did not share equally, and neither knew how to deal with it. Run could only hope time would work its healing magic and help them both. Meanwhile, she was going to try to gently talk with Dís, make her see that turning away from her brother would do no good. She could only imagine how it pained Dís when she saw Thorin playing with the boys instead of her husband, telling them family tales and dwarven legends, teaching them Khuzdul, doing all the things a father should be doing. But it could not go on like this. Kíli was too young, but Fíli would soon notice something was amiss, would start asking questions in a way children all over the world always do, and it would only make things worse.

And that, she guessed, was another matter. Dís had her sons, and... Thorin loved his nephews, that much was plain to see, but they were not his sons, and he had no claims to them like Dís had, and was not as close to them as Dís, or they to him. With Dís avoiding him, he must have felt lonely. And, having to be the father the boys had lost, he must have felt guilty for hurting his sister, even though he was not responsible for what had happened. And it did Dís no good to turn away from her brother, because it did not help the matters, and could only make the princess feel more lonely.

It took only one hesitant talk, and Dís made the effort to look past her pain and she understood. That evening, when Run was leaving to let the family eat their supper in peace, and Thorin came back from his duties to spend some time with the boys, Dís did not leave, but invited him to the table, then sat down herself, both boys seated between them. That was not a happy family picture, Run thought, quietly walking away, but a family picture nonetheless.

There was, she noted in an afterthought, very much quiet walking away involved in being a healer. When she came back to her little house, it was empty, but there was a fresh loaf of bread on the table, and some milk in the churn, and smiled when she thought of Sage. The bread on the table was nothing close to any family picture, but it reminded Run she was not alone either.

She ate some of the bread and heated some of the milk and drank it, and then she went to the kitchen, to take care of her herbs. But when she took her herb knife, she felt the uneven lines under her fingertips, where the runes were. She turned the knife to look at the runes, and touched the markings, and thought of the dwarven king, and knew there was a part of her loneliness that neither her friends' nor Sage's presence could quell.


	27. Chapter 27

_Thank you for all the favs, follows and reviews!  
_

_**Sopasoap**: Glad you like the pace of the fic; some things should not be rushed :)_

_**pronker**: It will come about somehow, and very soon now :)_

* * *

**- 27-**

"**A**nd so it was that tears melted the distance the princess' husband's death put between them away, and the same grief that had divided Dís and her brother now, shared, reunited them. It still hurt Dís to watch Thorin acting like a father to her sons, but they needed someone who would do that for them, and she remembered she used to be grateful for his care, and she was grateful for his help still, and smiled at him again. And Thorin in turn smiled at her, too, and played her favourite songs, and though he sang only rarely, he sometimes sang for his sister, too. To his nephews, he told stories, and taught them many things young dwarven princes should learn. And ever so slowly, little glance by glance, word by word and note by note, laughter returned to Thorintûmhu.

"Run lived as she used to, gathering herbs and making ointments, and she often came to visit Dís. And sometimes the princess's brother would accompany them, and sometimes he would play his harp. Most of the time he would look at the harp strings, or glance at the fire, or look up briefly to smile at his sister. But sometimes he would look up at Run, and there would be a non-smile on his lips, and his eyes would reflect the flames from the hearth. Yet not once did he speak of it, and neither did Run.

"Months passed, and though they did talk, they spoke of everything but what she knew was weaved between them, and all they shared was silence and glances. Run took her time thinking of it, and because he had never spoken outright, she knew she should not speak either. But after much deliberation she finally reached a decision, and wanted to show him plainly what was on her mind, and wanted to learn his, and wished to know how they stood with each other."

"Did she?" asked Tilly. "Did she do it? How?"

Acwyn smiled. "That, I think, is not a question you should be asking me. Remember, I am but telling you a tale. But I should think somehow she did, or maybe they did talk about it after all, for from then on things changed between them. Run would visit Dís, as she used to, and played with her friend's sons, and tell them tales. Those were tales of Radagast the wizard and his animals, and some stories from Mirkwood, and some songs from Rivendell. But once and again she would tell a story of Aulë and Yavanna, and in between the lines she spoke of her feelings, and in between the lines Thorin could hear them. And he in turn would sometimes speak of dwarven tales of Durin the Deathless and his mysterious wife, or of Mahal and his spouse, Mizimel, that is Aulë and Yavanna in the common tongue.

"But not only that. Sometimes, just as he used to, he would hide his face under the sky-blue hood and with Balin or Dwalin he would go to sit by the healer's fire, and listen to tales and tell them. And, however rarely, he would go to fetch herbs for his sister, but he would go in the evening and stay for some time in the healer's house, and together with Run he would sit beside the fire, either in silence or talking quietly. And sometimes they would meet at the hidden passage and go up into the mountains together.

"And now, if you wish, let us try to imagine how their life might have looked like."


	28. Chapter 28

**- 28 -**

"**A**ll right, I promised a story, little one, and a story I have." Run moved over from the bench to the bear skin spread beside the hearth, where Fíli was sitting. Kíli, held by Dís and seated on her lap, was apparently very sleepy, his eyes shooting open from time to time, only to slid closed after a moment. "You are probably familiar with the name Mahal, aren't you?" she asked, lowering her voice not to wake Kíli.

"That's the one uncle Thorin calls when he's real angry at someone!" Fíli beamed.

Thorin, still in the midst of eating his supper, coughed quietly.

"Well, aside from that..." Run had to strain very hard not to smile. "Mahal, or Aulë, as some folk call him, is the father and creator of dwarves, but also the first craftsman, and he sculpted mountains and gems and stone. Mahal, and all the Valar, are alike us, or maybe we're alike them, in a few aspects, and among them in that some of them have what we would call wives or husbands, and some chose to remain alone."

"Ah-ha! You'll tell us about Mahal's wife!"

"An excellent guess." Run ruffled Fíli's hair. "Mahal's spouse, that means wife, is called Yavanna. While Mahal created stone and gems and that which lasts changing but slowly, Yavanna's song brought to life what grows quickly and then withers, but has its own beauty, all the more for how short it lasts. Yavanna's children, so to say, are trees and plants and flowers, and animals also."

"So she's a herb-lady, like you?"

"No, little one, I'm nothing like her, and I'd never dare to make such comparison." Run smiled. "I have only a bit of hard learned skill, while Yavanna holds the power," she explained. "But let's get back to the story, shall we?" She recalled one of the walks with Radagast when she had still been a woodsgirl of Mirkwood, and how she too had interrupted at every stage of the story. "You see, little one, Yavanna was afraid for her creations, because while animals have legs and wings and can therefore run from danger, trees and plants cannot, and she feared the fate that could befell them. And Ilúvatar, whom we more commonly call Eru, He That is Alone, the Lord for Always who dwells beyond the world and who is the beginning of life, heard her pleas, and took pity on her. And thus Eru promised to her that the trees will be given voice to defend themselves, and so the ents were given life, the Tree Shepherds, although long no one has heard about them nor seen them. But the tale has it there are still some inhabiting lands far into the South, a forest called Fangorn, but not many are brave enough to venture here, and so the fate of the Tree Shepherds remains unknown."

"I'll be brave enough!" ventured Fíli, then yawned, scooted over and leaned against her happily, deciding she would do good as a pillow.

Run caught Dís' nod, and so she hugged the dwarfling. "I don't doubt it, little one," she said, smiling.

"So," said Fíli, fighting off sleep because some matter required his whole attention to be solved immediately. "Your husband's a craftsman? To fit to the tale and your herbs?" he inquired, curious.

Run ruffled his hair. "I have no husband, little one."

Fíli pursed his lips, thinking hard, then beamed. "Uncle Thorin has no wife!" he announced, very pleased with the discovery.

Run froze. Thorin choked on a gulp of ale.

"Fíli!" hissed Dís.

"But amad, he hasn't!" Fíli protested. "And he's a smith!"

Dís got up, holding Kíli at her hip. "Time to bed," she said sternly, reaching out her hand towards Fíli.

"But amad..."

"Now," she said.

"It's all right, sister," spoke Thorin, to Run's and Dís' surprise.

"It's also late," Dís said, in a softer voice. "Come on, Fíli, your little brother wants to sleep, and your mother does, too."

Run watched as Fíli reluctantly got up, took his mother's hand and followed her out of the room.

"The wisdom of children..." Run muttered in amazement.

"Dís' didn't quite share your awe," Thorin remarked.

"I know your customs." Run turned and looked up at him. "And I don't blame her," she said, very softly.

Thorin stood up. "But she was right. It is late." In two quick strides he was beside the hearth, his hand outstretched towards her. Run reached out and allowed him to help her get up, then let go of his hand immediately. She kept her stare fixed on the mithril clasps on his hair, not meeting his eyes, and she suspected he was not looking at her either.

"I'd better..." she began, and at the same time Thorin said "You should...", and together they each finished their sentences with a "go". She glanced at him, he looked at her, and suddenly both burst into laughter, because what else but laughter was left to them?

Thorin gently took a lock of hair that fell into her face and pulled it back, without otherwise touching her. "Definitely not Yavanna," he said, amused.

"Well, we've had Durin mentioned already..." Run raised her eyebrows. "Quite an opinion you have of yourself, Majesty."

"I know better than to dare draw such comparisons," he said, serious this time. Mahal's name was no jesting matter for the dwarves. "And so do you."

"Yes," she agreed, for peace's sake. Somehow deep inside she was certain the Valar had to have a sense of humour, and so had Eru, because how else the folks inhabiting Arda would have it if not from their creators? "Goodnight, Majesty" she said softly.

He held her gaze for a moment, his face unreadable like stone, and his eyes like the inscrutable depths of Mirrormere, reflecting the night sky. "Goodnight," he answered, then added: "Lake-lady," in a voice barely more audible than a breath, and like a breath it came out gentle and soft, and fleeting.


End file.
